Demons of Manhattan
by bandfictionality
Summary: Matt discovers it's not as easy as one might think to stop the criminal sleeping in one's living room from moonlighting as another vigilante.
1. Just Another Surgery

Matt wakes where he fell asleep, only for the second time since the explosions. He slept upright in one of the four chairs in the foyer of the Queens-based home surgery, awaking only when the surgeon returns with heavy footsteps. Smelling only of soap and neutral deodorant, Dr Jen has paper shopping bag with her, filled with pill bottles and boxes of bandages. The lawyer thinks she smiles, thin lips drawn wide.

"Good morning, Mr. Murdock," she says, "I'd ask you how you slept, but I'm aware the chair is uncomfortable, and there are more pressing matters than small talk. The surgery went smoothly, despite everything that could've gone more wrong. There was the bullet wound, obviously, a left temple laceration, various other lacerations, and he's _covered_ in contusions...

"The bullet was less than an inch past the peritoneum, thanks to it nicking the armoured vest I had to cut off your friend, and the low velocity also meant minimal foreign materials were dragged into the wound. The cauterisation scar tissue was a little difficult to get past, but as I understand it, was necessary at the time. It took all the O-negative I had on hand to counteract the blood loss. If he were stable, I would take a blood sample to monitor haemoglobin and white blood cell levels, but that'll have to wait. I gave him a tetanus shot, as I'm unsure of his being up-to-date. Are you awake enough to listen to the further necessary treatment?"

Matt's posture straightens in the armchair, and he slowly moves to retrieve his glasses from the coffee table with a nod. The night before the one just gone was rough. Claire continued to talk Matt through how to stabilise Vladimir once back at his apartment until the criminal's heartbeat finally settled on a steady rhythm; Matt was able to catch up on some sleep.

In the morning, Matt woke to Claire at his door, medical kit with her, but expression grim. A quick assessment of Vladimir's abdomen - punctuated by continual curses and groans - confirmed to Claire that the bullet has obviously missed major organs and is instead probably lodged in the outer muscle/fat layer. Claire, after a short persuasive speech from Matt, called up a surgeon she knows does work for the criminal side of NYC. They arrived midday yesterday, being accepted quickly and Vladimir whisked away by the doctor almost upon arrival.

"Great," Dr Jen replies, taking a seat across from him, placing the bag on the coffee table between them. She pulls out the first three pill bottles, tablets rattling softly. "This is a broad-spectrum antibiotic. This one," she taps a bottle lid, "is called amoxicillin, to be taken twice a day, without food. This one is a weak steroid to support muscle mass; once a day _with_ food. This one is an antiemetic, given when he feels nauseous. Got it?"

The lawyer shakes his head absently. "Can I label them? Do you have rubber bands, or something? The bottles are too similar," he explains.

"Of course," Dr Jen says, pant-suit rustling and keys jingling in her pocket as she stands, "an oversight, on my part... pun unintended."

Beyond the foyer is a storage room, three hospital-like rooms, and an operating theatre, from what Matt can tell - he was a little distracted last night, what with dragging the half-dead Russian to this private surgery. All he could tell was that he, Claire, the near-dead man, and the doctor, were the only ones here. Claire left almost at once, promising to return when Matt calls.

Vladimir's heart beats somewhat steadily in the closest hospital-like room as he sleeps. The lawyer ignores the thrum, and the reassurance it brings, to scope out the foyer instead.

There's a shelved timber desk on the other side of the room. Dr Jen walks over to it, sensible shoes making little noise, and rifles through a few of the drawers. Being in lawyer-mode rather than man-in-mask-mode, and hoping to make this surgery as non-memorable as possible, Matt doesn't tell her it's in the third drawer down. Dr Jen returns with the rubber band ball, and places it on the table.

Matt takes it up, considering how to differentiate the bottles quickly.

"Antibiotic, twice a day, empty stomach," Dr Jen repeats, picking up the corresponding bottle and placing it back down noisily. Matt takes it, wrapping two rubber bands around the middle. "Steroid, once a day, with food." One rubber band round the middle, another over the lid. "Antiemetic, as necessary." A rubber band across the lid. "Good to move ahead?"

"Yes."

Dr Jen takes the final two bottles from the bag, placing them on the table as well. "This is an ibuprofen painkiller, as necessary, with food. I'd recommend two tablets, twice a day," she says, and then taps the other one – a nearly empty bottle with only three pills in it. "Moxifloxacin, another antibiotic. One tablet tomorrow, one tomorrow-week."

The painkiller receives two rubber bands around the middle and two across the top while the moxifloxacin gets none.

"What's next?" Matt asks, face neutral.

"Don't seem so worried, Mr. Murdock. Your friend has a good chance of making a full recovery now. I have a list of the medications, too, perhaps you have another friend who can read them to you," Dr Jen says warmly, clasping her hands together. "Next, is dressing the wound. I've stitched it up with dissolvable Vicryl sutures – those are made from polyglactin nine-ten; they'll be at fifty-percent strength after three weeks, and gone after three months. I applied a square bandage over the stitches. You need to keep the dressing clean and dry; sponge baths only, until the wound closes. Give it at least a week for that. Bed rest is non-negotiable, obviously.

"Clean around the wound and replace the dressing daily for the next week, or more often if it becomes dirty. Clean your hands after removing an old dressing and before cleaning around the wound. Clean your hands again after cleaning the wound and applying the new dressing. I've got these wipes," Dr Jen removes a plastic package from the bag, "for the cleaning the actual wound – use only these. Ask for more if you need them, don't buy your own. There's also more sutures-" another package, "for when the originals dissolve, or the current ones become damaged. You might need them. With the sponge baths, wrap the wound in plastic to make sure it doesn't get wet. When it's healed over, he can have showers, not baths. Oh, and the rest of the stuff in the bag is extra dressings, and a roll of medical tape."

Matt wets his lips nervously, fingers twitching. "And, how much does all this cost?"

"Honey, as I understand it, you've not got much in the way of money at the moment. Am I right?" Dr Jen asks kindly.

"Yes, that's right," the lawyer nods.

"But your friend, back there, might. Considering all you've done, I think he can cover it. As soon as he's lucid, ask. It'll be twenty thousand dollars, for everything. Not right now, but within a few weeks, I'd like a sign that it's happening," Dr Jen explains, "I trust you to pay me, so I'm not going to waste breath on threats."

"Thank you," Matt breathes, relaxing a little at her words. He wriggles his toes in his shoes, preparing to stand.

"Now, call the nurse to return. I'd like you to take the patient home as soon as is manageable," Dr Jen says, retaining the same calm tone. "With no significant head injuries and no reason to induce a coma, he's only on a temporary intravenous drip – some morphine, and some nutrients, other stuff. He's well enough to hobble to the bathroom, when he wakes, so no need for any nasty alternatives, don't worry about that. Now, the call?"

Matt nods, fishing the burner phone from his pocket and standing. Tired, slightly wounded muscles ache in protest. Claire arrived the morning after the explosions to stitch him up and check on Vladimir. She was angry he'd bothered saving the Russian, but not that angry – she did lead him to Dr Jen, after all. A private surgeon not exactly on the books, Dr Jen was eager to oblige once Claire mentioned the hospital contact from which she got Jen's address. The doctor loves stealing patients, apparently.

Claire picks up on the fourth ring.

" _Hello?_ "

"Hey, Claire, it's Matt," the lawyer says.

" _One second_ ," she replies, voice tired. There's rustling, and then she returns. " _How'd it go?_ "

 _Is he dead?_ hangs unspoken in the short silence that follows.

"Fine. Alive, stable, currently sleeping. Can you pick us up?"

An exasperated sigh. Now that Matt focuses, he can hear telltale hospital sounds in the background – faint groans of pain, worried chatter, doctors' orders...

" _I'm at work right now_ ," Claire confirms, " _I can leave in about four hours, at best. I'm sorry, there was a shooting in Central Park, haven't you seen it on the news?_ "

"I don't exactly watch the news," Matt chuckles, "and no, I fell asleep yesterday afternoon, as soon as you left."

" _Okay. So, in five hours, with travel time?_ "

"Yep. See you then. Thanks again, Claire. You're the best."

" _Yeah, yeah. Bye,_ " she finishes, and ends the call. Matt lets out a low breath and turns back to where he can hear the doctor still standing.

"So?" Dr Jen asks, hands clasped together behind her back. She's as tall as Matt, a lean woman with a most peculiar occupation. He doesn't want to consider who her other clientele might be.

"My friend, Claire, won't be able to get here for another five hours," Matt says apologetically, pocketing the phone, "could I – we – stay here until then?"

"You have no other friends who could help?" Dr Jen asks skeptically, her voice the only clue to the feeling. Her body temperature doesn't change – as far as Matt can tell with the air – and scent makes no changes.

Matt shakes his head. There's Foggy, of course, but he has no idea about any of this, and Karen's not much more than an acquaintance.

"I'll call a private taxi. It's already eight-twenty; five hours is too long. Your friend is sure to wake soon, and he needs to either be talked down, or in a secure place, when that happens. You need to get home, Mr. Murdock," Dr Jen says.

Matt's heart quickens uneasily at the words, a light wave of panic, both at the prospects of Vladimir waking up – this being i _real_ /i and not some deluded death-dream – and possibly being kicked out.

"Doctor, please. My friend, in there," he nods to where the Russian's heartbeat permeates the walls, "made an enemy of a very dangerous man."

"A regular taxi, then? Surely no man can have spies in a city's taxis," Dr Jen scoffs, shuffling her feet.

Matt adjusts his glasses with a barely shaking hand, unsure of what to say. He doesn't trust that Fisk won't find out somehow, and besides, carrying Vladimir around is sure to catch unwanted attention, even in Hell's Kitchen.

Dr Jen sighs, short and planned. "Well," her voice comes out soft, "if you're still so hesitant, I insist on driving you myself; I have a van suitable for this sort of thing. It would be for an extra fee, of course, but we won't worry about that now. I need you and your friend gone from my practice. So, what'll it be?"

"I'd like to accept your generous personal offer," Matt forces a smile he's employed mainly for lawyer-ing and business, rather than a genuine expression of gladness. Not that he's _not_ glad Dr Jen is offering, or isn't grateful for all she's done, it's more that he doesn't trust the woman. He can handle himself, of course, but Vladimir is injured and regularly unconscious. It's only by the Russian's heartbeat that he can even tell the other man is alive, since any other scents have been replaced by rubbing alcohol, polyvinylpyrrolidone-iodine, and other antiseptics.

"Very well," Dr Jen's voice sounds again, sounding pleased. "For most injuries, I'd suggest hiring a wheelchair. But, with the side positioning of the wound, and so low on the abdomen, too, I think it's better if your friend is merely aided in walking. I gave him a mild intravenous sedative just before the surgery. That wore off three quarters of an hour afterwards when I was cleaning the rest of his wounds. The GCS indicates no significant cranial injuries or incapacitation; the GCS, that's Glasgow Coma Scale, rating was between eleven and fifteen, though I'd estimate a thirteen – it relies partially on verbal response, so I'm unsure as to whether he responded unintelligibly or in garbled Russian. Are you able to verify this?"

"I don't speak Russian, sorry," Matt says, swallowing with only a little nervousness, "he might've just not wanted to obey commands, with the first test. So, there's that." A small smile sneaks onto his lips, fuelled by something dangerously close to familiarity. Matt labels it 'amusement', regardless, and clears the thought from his mind.

"Ah. Okay," Dr Jen nods, "well, if you would collect the bagged items, I'll prepare your friend for the journey. Remove his IV, et cetera. I had to cut away his clothes to get to the injuries, so a hospital gown will have to suffice."

Matt returns the nod, and Dr Jen walks off. He wanders to the coffee table, recollecting the pills bottles and small plastic packages, stuffing them into the paper shopping bag – brown, probably – and another, smaller wave of shock hits him.

He hadn't thought this through at all. Those explosions were the Russians' properties – taxi garage, weapons warehouse, apartments, _safe houses_. The lawyer is suddenly ninety-percent sure Vladimir has nowhere else to go, as well as no possessions. Matt feels as though he's been suddenly forced to babysit, with no supplies or warning. If a babysitter's regular charge was a rancorous, ferocious, half-dead, adult man. Matt supposes his clothes will have to do for Vladimir; it should be fine, considering the Russian is scarcely two inches taller, from memory. He wasn't too focused on such minute things when his ears were still ringing from the explosions, beating up corrupt cops, and whatnot.

pMatt lets out a soft sigh, and walks to wait by the door-sealed corridor. Dr Jen opens the door within the minute, scent now not only soap, but also faintly of blood. She must notice his slightly sniffing of the air; she says,

"The blood? Just from removing the IV, Mr. Murdock. Don't worry. He's still sleeping, and I'm not strong enough to carry him. The van is just out back, though. You can carry him or wake him up."

"I'll carry him," Matt confirms, putting off the inevitable, and handing off the bag to the waiting hands of Dr Jen. He'd rather handle the situation in a familiar setting, rather than this shady home surgery. And of course, by 'carry', he means half-drag half-support, because neither of them are in any state capable of the over-the-shoulder technique Matt favoured on explosion night. That could tear those brand new stitches, and no way is Matt paying twenty thousand dollars for a dead Russian – or at all.

The corridor is cold, unfeeling. The rooms stink of washed-away blood, expensive cigarettes, and hospital-grand disinfectant. Vladimir's, furthest from the foyer, is only a little more lively.

While most people are alight with flames; ever-changing scents of pheromones and toxins seeping through the skin, airwaves from fidgeting bodies, vibrations from their vocal chords, and the world moving around them. Vladimir – or rather, his body – is smouldering cinders and as still as the living can be. His chest rises and falls heavily, huffing breaths out of his broken nose. Eyes move beneath their lids. Fingers twitch and flutter minutely. Lips allow puffs of air to escape, partway between breaths and words.

Dr Jen clears her throat, hands clasped behind her back. Matt snaps from his focus on Vladimir, but only takes a few steps toward the hospital-like bed, careful of the IV bags suspended by it.

A thousand thoughts are continually flooding Matt's mind, head swimming with Fisk's operation, the sheer amount of corrupt cops, the Chinese being involved, _O_ _wlsley_ , a name to Fisk's _Shumway_ , as Vladimir so eloquently-

Matt chooses to find a point to focus on, and settles on the heartbeat of the criminal before him, the heavy thrum of being in repose. Matt practically basks in it, mustering the courage to just get this over with and take Vladimir to the van. The IV is disconnected, Matt remembers, and so decides to no longer hesitate. He snakes his right arm under Vladimir's shoulders, hooking under the Russian's right arm on the opposite side.

The heartbeat Matt's honed in on barely quickens, despite the body it belongs to being lifted from the bed. The hospital gown crinkles as Matt's fingers curl against Vladimir's ribs through the cheap cotton. Matt reaches with his free arm to shift the unconscious man's lower body to the edge of the thin mattress. Once Vladimir's legs are off enough, Matt hooks under those legs, shifting the limp arm closest up over his own shoulder. It's not easy, by any means. Matt is already injured himself, and Vladimir is a little taller and thus a few pounds heavier, and God, it'd be easier if the Russian weren't dead weight.

Or, almost-dead weight.

Dr Jen nods appreciatively, stalking out, further down the corridor. The door is heavy, sliding metal, able to open only after three deadbolts and a latch are unlocked thanks to the keys in the doctor's left pocket. Matt is aware of the world outside, as he always is, but doesn't get distracted by it. He follows Dr Jen outside, to one of three vehicles under the four-space carport. He barely notices the makes and models of the cars, only nothing they all have full tanks, and the van they're headed for smells of potting mix and cut greens.

"Are you a florist, in your spare time?" Matt chuckles after the telltale click of the van's remote key, shifting the criminal in his arms as he reaches the side door.

Dr Jen laughs, and it's scarily close to a giggle. Rather than lightening the mood, it sends a shuffle of a shiver down Matt's spine. Dr Jen opens the sliding door easily, amused at Matt's discomfort.

"That's the impression the van gives, I suppose. There's a row of seats, three feet behind the driver and passenger seats. Put him on the door side, I'll strap him in, put the medical stuff in the shotgun seat," she says in that regular matter-of-fact tone, though it has a hint of merriness now. Thinking of all that money, probably.

Matt does as she says, heaving the body onto the bench seat while Dr Jen throws the bag in the front. The lawyer takes the event of Vladimir not waking up yet as a token of ease in all this mess, and so acts with about as much calmness as this can muster. Climbs into the van, takes a seat next to the Russian, puts on the seatbelt, and waits for the van to move.

The engine starts up on the first try, and they're off after the lawyer provides his address. Matt observes every passing sound and scent he can manage with little concentration, instead focusing on the two other heartbeats in the van. Both are even and steady.

It's so close to meditation, time passes easily in the forty-five minutes to his apartment. Soon enough, the semi-faux florists' van pulls up on the familiar street, cruising for his building.

"I'll see you two back at my surgery in a fortnight," Dr Jen proclaims, and it definitely is _not_ a question, "only call me before that, with the number on the burner phone in the bag, if the pain doesn't improve after taking painkillers, there's bleeding that won't stop after ten minutes of direct pressure, or if you notice signs of an infection: increased drainage from the wound, thick, tan, green, or yellow drainage, a temperature is above one hundred degrees, Fahrenheit, for more than four hours, or there's red streaks that lead away from the wound. I've included non-frozen icepacks that can be applied to lessen swelling, but make sure they don't get the dressing wet.

"And if you're worried about being seen, don't be. Be quick, act natural, it'll be fine. It is Hell's Kitchen, after all," she says, stealing a parking spot from a taxi. "So, are you ready, Mr. Murdock?"

Matt puts more weight to the question than he really should. Regardless, he nods sharply. "Yes, Dr Jen. And thank you, for all you've done."

Dr Jen giggles once more, leaning back around in her seat. "You remember the money, Mr. Murdock, and you'll be beyond welcome," she says, tone insouciant.

Matt nods again, and moves to leave, removing his seatbelt, and then the one beside him. He's ready. Or, he's going to have to be.


	2. Sinks of Fishes and Dirty Dishes

Matt does as he originally planned, with carrying/dragging Vladimir to the apartment. He slings the criminal's left arm over his shoulder and hooks his right arm behind said criminal's upper torso. Dr Jen climbs elegantly from the van, dodging intermittent traffic to walk to the curbside. She opens the passenger door, snatching up the bag, and closes both that door and the sliding one after Matt climbs out, Vladimir in tow. The Russian's feet trail on the sidewalk.

"I'll accompany you to your apartment; bring the bag, ensure your friend is settled. Yes?" Dr Jen, the question very much an afterthought.

Matt readjusts his grip on the Russian and nods with fervour. "Thanks," he says, tone hurried, and walks off toward the building. Dr Jen strides ahead, opening the small foyer's door for the lawyer.

He walks lopsided up the six flights of stairs, puffing at the effort of dragging Vladimir along with him. The Russian couldn't be calmer, still sleeping off the sedative/anaesthetic/whatever Dr Jen gave him. Matt is no expert in biomedical science, and so doesn't question it. He's just trying to pinpoint the steps, counting each one down in silence.

Finally, on the sixth floor, Matt lets out a heavy breath, puffing from the effort, hoping he hasn't pulled any stitches. It's a near thing.

"Six-A," he huffs out, and fumbles with his free hand for the key ring in his left pocket. Dr Jen walks to the corresponding door, taking the keys as soon as Matt holds them out. The doctor unlocks the door, easing it open.

Matt revels in the smells and sounds of home. The hum of appliances, the whistle of wind against windowpanes-

The heartbeats and breathing patterns of two acquaintances (okay, so Karen is a friend, not an acquaintance), one of which he'd beaten half to death not two days ago, and the other whom he doesn't doubt could ruin his life if she wished it. Matt walks into the apartment in as lengthy strides as he can manage, round the edge of the foyer, just to make it to the couch. He does his best not to drop or throw Vladimir onto it, and instead settles the other man onto the worn leather, feet closest to the window.

Matt steps back from the couch, breaths heavy, and sets his hands on his hips.

Dr Jen reminds him of her existence with a short clearing of the throat. The lawyer turns his head in her general direction, but doesn't answer.

"I'll put the bag on this coffee table," she proclaims, placing the medical supplies on the mostly clear surface, "I must say, Mr. Murdock, you have a lovely apartment."

"Thanks," Matt nods, and then sighs after a short stretch of silence. "I just need to," he pauses, and sighs again. "I have some issues to sort through regarding- my friend," he chokes out, words unnatural and not the least bit true, "because this is very, very sudden."

Dr Jen seems to understand. "I figured as much, as you've brought him here, rather than his own home. My advice would be to settle him in, and then go on a quick shopping trip, for extra groceries and whatnot," she says.

"Thanks," the lawyer repeats intelligently, dropping his hands from his hips.

"I have other business to attend to, of course, so this is where I leave you. Thank you for approaching me for the surgery. I hope a full recovery occurs," Dr Jen says in a cordial tone, and doesn't wait for a reply before she walks back around the corridor. She only stops at the door, hand resting on the handle, calling out, "Oh, and no alcohol for your friend, whatsoever." With that, she opens the door, walking out of Matt's apartment.

He keeps his focus trained on the sleeping criminal until Dr Jen has left. Vladimir could awaken at any moment, Matt knows. He doesn't know what he's going to say when that happens. So, to pass the time, Matt resolves to prepare lunch for the both of them with what little he has in his apartment. He's beginning to think Dr Jen is freaking psychic or something, because she's completely right about the grocery-shopping thing. A stock take of the cupboards and drawers reminds Matt he only has some fruits, three-day-old bread, milk, and some cheap spices.

The lawyer resigns to the kitchen, keeping track of the Russian only by the soft thuds of his heartbeat.

Vladimir remembers the last thirty-six hours in mere flashes and snatches of memory, after he collapsed in the sewers, proclaiming he'd stay behind. The man in the mask, apparently, had not been content with that.

He remembers pain, relief, light, darkness – the nurse he had questioned (beaten up) helping him, the idiot mask-man wearing a suit when they'd gotten to the doctor, the doctor, with her calm words and sleep-inducing drugs and unforgiving stitches-

Vladimir surfaces to deep, gasping breaths of saccharine air, cool on his hot throat. His eyes flicker open, cheeks puffing as he struggles with the reality of waking; the man in the mask took him from the tunnels and has- has goddamn _bandaged_ him up. Vladimir's hands flutter at his sides, twitching to move up to his abdomen. Bandaged, bound-up fingers trail across the papery hospital gown. A _hospital_ \- God, he might not be dead, but if he was at a hospital, he might as well be.

He hears cutlery clatter to onto ceramic, knock against a bench top. The ceiling seems endlessly away, the windows he's facing – despite lying down on a lumpy couch – are glaring broad city daylight, the surrounding furniture resemble _homely_ -

"Where am I?" Vladimir grumbles in accented English, breathing calming down. He drags his gaze all about the space, glaring out the window, and then beside him, recognisable only by figure and jaw line, is the man in the mask, sans mask.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in his right side, and aches resounding from the rest of his body, the Russian turns, shoulders shifting so he doesn't have to crane his neck so much to perceive the other man. But Vladimir is tired, so tired, and is barely keeping himself from falling back asleep.

"Somewhere safe," Matt says, like the genius he is. Smart, Murdock, great. Spent an hour formulating a response to whatever the criminal might say, and 'somewhere safe' is the best first line he can come up with to the most obvious question.

He's abandoned the idea of wearing his mask all the time. It's not like Vladimir is about to tattle to Fisk, or anyone, for that matter. And so Matt stands before the Russian, solemn-faced and observant. He hopes the glasses make sense, with the sun beating down outside; from the heat in the air, it's either sunny or hot and cloudy. Based on the normalcy of the humidity, he guesses it to be the former.

"Your home," Vladimir guesses in accented English, growling the 'h'. He shifts a little, so he lies perfectly in the middle of the couch once more. His heartbeat has steadied once more, much calmer than Matt could have ever hoped.

The lawyer nods, and proceeds to ask a question of his own. "I've made lunch. Are you hungry?" he says.

" _Net_ ," Vladimir sighs, "tired, man-in-mask. Do you have any _obe_... any pills, for pain?"

"You give me what I need, first, Vladimir. Information. On Fisk, Owlsley, anything," the American presses, reaching for the bag with the best precision he can muster. Despite the lack of mask, he doesn't want the criminal to know he's blind, not yet.

"Am so tired," Vladimir replies solemnly, breathing slowing minutely.

"Vladimir," Matt says, even as he rifles through the bag, "information. Now."

" _Bud' terpelivy so mnoy_ ," the Russian says, much softer than Matt thought was possible. The next word isn't much more than a wheeze, a groan of slightly articulated breath, "Please."

Matt locks his jaw at this, free hand clenching into a fist while the other finds the ibuprofen bottle; two rubber bands around the middle, two around the top. He doesn't understand what Vladimir said in Russian, but assumes it's more of the same. The tone of the 'please' gives Matt an unwarranted pang of sympathy, which he washes away with memories of the criminal's usual cruelty.

The lawyer walks back to the kitchen and takes a plastic water bottle from the fridge – no _way_ is he dealing with smashed glass on the floor at the moment – before trailing back to grab two of the painkillers.

"Here," he says in a neutral tone, brandishing the water and pills at the (not-)dying mess inhabiting his couch.

Vladimir blinks rapidly, movement of his eyelids audible in the quiet air. He doesn't thank Matt, or make any verbal response at all, but takes the pills and water all the same. He throws the pills into his mouth without question, wrenches the water bottle open and drains half of it.

Matt waits patiently, taking the bottle back when Vladimir moves weakly to give it to him. The lawyer sets it on the coffee table, just by the bag.

Over the next hour or so, Vladimir continues to speak minimally, falling asleep over and over, and often straight-up ignoring what Matt asks. The lawyer finds it frustrating, to say the least, but doesn't get angry. He helps Vladimir hobble to the bathroom, cuts up the second bacon-and-tomato sandwich into bite-sized pieces, and refills the water bottle. He lays off adding other pills to the existing cocktail of medicine he's sure is thrumming in the criminal's blood vessels. Those can wait for tomorrow. Matt called Foggy yesterday morning, assuring his friend of his being alright (not a lie) and that he's now safe (a complete lie).

It's only when the watch on Matt's wrist reads eleven-twenty that Vladimir begins to wake up for more than five minutes. The lawyer clicks the watch face shut, prepared once more to ask the important questions. He knows the motivation would be that time is of the essence, but whatever he finds out, he can't just leave Vladimir here. This apartment costs Matt a lot each month, despite the discount for the billboard, and is likewise speckled with valuables. There are his father's old possessions, for instance, as well as the expensive accessible technology scattered around.

Realistically, he knows the Russian isn't about to die on him at any moment, not now. Dr Jen has crafted a miracle – or a regular Tuesday, by her attitude – and there's no end in sight for Vladimir now. Matt tries not to grind his teeth, eyes narrowing at the criminal behind his deep crimson glasses, listening as Vladimir's heartbeat changes as per waking.

Blue eyes open slowly this time. Vladimir knows that just two days ago, he wanted the man in the mask dead. Dead, splattered on the ground, a mess of blood and guts and that godforsaken mask. Revenge for his brother- Vladimir pushes the thoughts away. That horrible man, Fisk, had his lapdog lie to Vladimir, blame a vigilante with a no-killing rule for murdering Anatoly. Rage simmers beneath the surface of his mind, fighting to surface in some form, trying to make his blood boil and adrenaline rush.

It doesn't.

There's a sense of defeat, in not dying. In having that choice taken away, not dying on his own terms. Of course, being shot at and beaten aren't exactly his own terms, but death was a decision he made. Under duress, after a hectic day and night, what with being blown up, shot, dead, resuscitated, and almost-died again, sure.

There's also a feeling of incessant safety, despite Vladimir knowing it's really not. Fisk has spies everywhere, the manipulative-

"Vladimir," the American interrupts the criminal's staring match with the ceiling rafters.

"Any of your friends," Vladimir stops only to clear his throat, doing his best to articulate the words, "have keys for your apartment?"

"No," the other man replies adjusting the sleeves of his charcoal-coloured suit jacket, expression unreadable behind round sunglasses.

Vladimir is content with the answer, and his lips quirk up in a weak smirk at the implications. "You not have close friends then, yes?" he says.

The vigilante shifts his feet uncomfortably. "I do," he says, tone only a little defensive, "I just, enjoy my privacy."

"They don't know about you running around in little mask? Of course. Why else would you let me live? Lonely man-in-mask, new headline," Vladimir scoffs, lifting his tattooed hands a little in the air, splaying his fingers apart and moving his hands, imitating the newspaper scripts.

"If I didn't need more information, you'd be dead," the usually-masked-man practically growls, clenching his fists at his sides.

Vladimir drops his hands from the air, letting them rest on hospital-gown-clad thighs. "I gave you name for accountant, what more do you need?" he sighs.

"Why are you bitter about this?" the American snaps, "I thought you were saying that it wasn't how you were going to die."

"Was trying to help," Vladimir says, glowering at the auburn-haired man, "Save you to stop Fisk. Save your friends, people you know. We are dead, now. They are dead. Your family, parents, too."

The vigilante gives a harsh, bitter laugh at this, and turns away. He walks to one of two armchairs on the other side of the coffee table and sits down gracefully. "It's too late for that last one," is all the explanation he offers.

Empathy makes Vladimir's heart swell slightly, which he brushes off his a laugh, so soft it's almost a sigh. He wants to ask the man other questions, to understand the situation; occupation, place of residence (where they actually are, rather than just knowing it's the vigilante's apartment), name. He figures that can wait a little. He still feels so tired after all; his sleep schedule mostly consists of intermittent naps, today. The sun keeps waking him up through those giant, archaic windows. At least those pills have kept the pain at bay.

The Russian settles on replying to the other man's words. " _Bol'she pokhozhi, chem vy dumayete_ ," he mutters, wincing at the pain his uneven breaths induce, allowing his eyelids to close for a few seconds. He doesn't bother to elaborate in English – partially unsure of exactly how to say it, partially taking a moment to control his lungs.

When he looks again, the brunet has one eyebrow raised, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"What?" he asks flatly.

"I understand. Is same. Parents, brother," Vladimir says, and then adds, "dead," in case the American still doesn't understand. He breathes audibly, broken nose forcing him to mostly take in and expel air through his mouth. He feels much cleaner than yesterday, despite all the injuries; scrubbed clean of the blood and dirt as if he never almost stuck behind in the tunnels.

He looks away from the American, left hand moving up to trace the butterfly closures by his left temple, and then returns to his side slowly ghost over the bruises on his jaw and on top of his ribs. The hand falls flat on the leather couch, palm to the hidden sky.

" _Ey_ ," he calls, head lolling to the side to survey the vigilante once more.

"Yeah?"

"Water," Vladimir says, left hand gesturing to it. It's just a little too far away to reach without moving to the edge of the couch.

The American raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Please," Vladimir huffs petulantly, waving his hand a little.

"Sure," the brunet complies, sounding slightly surprised that Vladimir actually said it. He shuffles to the edge of the armchair so he only has to lean forward to pass the plastic bottle over. The blond accepts the water with a grateful snatch, rolls onto his back once more and unscrews the lid. He turns away to drink heavily, carefully, so as to not send water up and out his nose. After this, he holds the bottle out once more, lid back on. It takes the American a second to grab the plastic, not leaning far enough to reach it, at first.

Vladimir eyes the other man critically, levelling him with a thoughtful gaze. "So," he proclaims, though his voice is still barely at a normal volume, "what is your name?"

The brunet looks puzzled, eyebrows knitting together for a few seconds. Vladimir can practically see the thoughts whirring in the other man's mind, despite those eyes being shielded by sunglasses. With the light from the window reaching it's almost-midday peak, Vladimir sees that those glasses are a very dark shade of blood red.

The vigilante sighs, relaxing back into the armchair, shoulders finally losing some of that coiled tension. "Matt," he says simply.

* * *

NOTE:  
Here's what I approximated the Russian used in this chapter (always in italics) to mean, please correct me if it's wrong:  
Net / нет ~ no  
obezbolivayushchiye / обезболивающие ~ painkillers  
Bud' terpelivy so mnoy / будь терпеливы со мной. ~ Be patient with me  
bol'she pokhozhi, chem vy dumayete. / больше похожи, чем вы думаете. = More similar than you might think.  
ey / эй ~ hey


	3. Act the Childish Part

As Vladimir's heartbeat slows, Matt listens. He'd figured out that the Russian was falling asleep several minutes ago, when the prattling had slowed, and then stopped. To be fair, it wasn't prattling nonsense, but it was getting a little repetitive.

Thirty-sixth and this, forty-second and that – addresses the Ranskahov brothers used to meet up at with Fisk and the others; Madame Gao, Mr. Nobu, Leland Owlsley, and Fisk's lapdog, James Wesley. Vladimir also spouted information about Owlsley – a description of his appearance and a mannerism or two. The American had bitten the inside of his cheek, wishing he could ask for details he can use without revealing himself to be blind.

He's glad the blond is being helpful at all. The lawyer took notes as Vladimir spoke, typing straight onto the keyboard of his computer and hoping the letters are right. He's now standing at the kitchen counter so if the inhabitant of his couch were to look, only the computer would be visible, and not the refreshable Braille display. Having checked over the notes, he's begun a shopping list.

The heartbeat that Matt has taken to be constant background noise in his mind speed up a little. A gasping breath confirms for the vigilante that Vladimir has woken up. Again.

"Owlsley was always worried," he mutters, 'W's sounding more like 'V's. He shifts against the couch, hospital gown crinkling. The brunet adds 'clothes' to the list; he doesn't want to share his clothing.

"Mm?" he makes a questioning noise.

"He was becoming old man, you know. Always unarmed," the Russian says with a soft laugh, though it sounds more like a wheezing sigh, "silly old man."

"Anything else _useful_ to tell me?" Matt asks.

Another laugh. "I know," the blond begins, pausing to cough. "I know what happens when people _perezhit_ ' their usefulness, yes?" he says, sounding hopeful that the word is close enough to understand.

"You mean, 'outlive'?" Matt tries to keep the amusement from his tone.

"That, 'outlive'. You said so yourself, I would be dead if you not needing information. I think I keep some to myself, yes?"

The lawyer gives a strange smile at this, fingers idling over the keys. "I didn't drag you out of those tunnels just to kill you," he says, puzzled.

Vladimir mutters something back in Russian, and then speaks more clearly, " _Da_. No killing. I forget, you soft."

Matt rolls his eyes at this and resolves to finish the list so he can go shopping before dark. He already made a shoddy meal plan for the rest of the week – today being Wednesday, planning until Saturday night. It's all simple stuff, for dinner; pastas, stews, roast and vegetables, that sort of thing. Lunch is set to be sandwiches and fruit while breakfast is bran cereal.

Exciting. _Well, it beats takeout every night,_ the brunet supposes.

Vladimir's food will come with a side helping of pills, naturally. Amoxicillin before breakfast, ibuprofen and the steroid with breakfast, the antiemetic whenever-

Matt makes a mental note to put a trash can by the couch. Just in case.

"Stop clicking at computer Matt, _nazhmite, snova i snova_. Stop," the Russian grumbles from across the large room.

 _This is for your benefit, you ungrateful jerk_ , the lawyer thinks, but makes no reply. He stops typing; he was almost done, anyway.

After a quick call to Foggy – made the second Vladimir falls asleep again – Matt concludes that he has got to get out of here. He's offered to give Foggy all his alcohol, his friend's response to which was an exclamation of getting drunk together, like old times. Matt had disagreed, and instead (untruthfully) confessed that he's going sober. Okay, so it's not a total lie, but it's not as though it's his choice. Dr Jen said no alcohol for healing 'your friend', and so no alcohol will be in the apartment. It's better than keeping an eye on the criminal non-stop, anyway.

Matt isn't an alcoholic, by any means, but that doesn't mean he's happy about having to childproof (Vladimir-proof) his apartment. Having already put all the beer in his fridge into a cool-grocery bag, Matt belatedly remembers the plethora of medicine occupying his coffee table. He walks over to it, picks up the bag by tracing the main section to the handles, and takes a second to glance at the Russian.

Well, by _glance_ , it's meant that he turns his attention to Vladimir. The bullet wound is heated more than the rest of his skin, but not yet inflamed. The hand on the couch twitches in its sleep, from time to time. None of the stitches are pulled, from what Matt can tell. It'd be confirmed if he could ghost the pads of his fingers over the sutured wound, slow and careful-

But no, there's no need. Not until the lawyer needs to change the bandages and whatnot. That can wait for tonight. As eager as Matt is to get back to prowling the streets, protecting the innocent and whatnot, he knows he's only faring a little better. He's covered in bruises himself, scratched up, and his spine _aches_ all the time.

 _All the more reason to leave_ , he thinks, and straightens his back, hand taking the bag with him. He walks back to the kitchen, opens the cabinet under the sink, and tosses the paper bag inside. And even as he leaves the living area to get ready that heartbeat doesn't leave his mind.

He had seen no harm in sharing his first name; at the time he sat back, sighed, and blurted it. The harm, he's discovered several hours later, is that the annoyance brought about by its continual usage is mind-boggling.

"Matt," Vladimir has called, whined, shouted, snapped, and generally _said_ over the past three hours since the American told him.

"Matt, need more water," the criminal announced every half hour or so. The brunet considered filling a bucket with water and dousing the Russian if he was that needy for dihydrogen monoxide, but dismissed the thought; that'd get the wounds wet, and they couldn't have that. Plus, it'd soak his couch, and he can't have that.

"Ey, Matt, more _sendvich_ , yes?" Vladimir asked an hour ago, while the lawyer had been trying to make the beginnings of his list.

"Sandwich," Matt had corrected him, but complied anyway, wandering to the fridge to make another sandwich. He'd finished up the final tomato and just piled on the butter, for lack of bacon.

"That is what I said, _mudak_ ," was the snappy reply.

Needless to say, Matt is having mixed feelings about this whole arrangement. If 'mixed' entails those feelings being plucked from all over the place, blended, eaten, and regurgitated. Several times.

Vladimir awakens to the sounds of uncharacteristically heavy footsteps and bottles clinking. He huffs out a laboured breath or two before his lungs settle. The sun isn't so bright now, thank goodness. His eyes are focusing on a massive billboard outside, on the adjacent building. He hopes the shine off of it won't be too bright at nighttime.

"Matt," the blond croaks, throat dry. He rolls his eyes when the vigilante doesn't answer, and flings his left arm out to the coffee table, finding the water bottle refilled.

After a drink, he tries again.

"Matt!" he hollers, as loud as he can manage without straining.

"Just a second," comes the stilted reply from somewhere a few walls behind Vladimir's head.

"If you say I cannot walk by myself, then help," the Russian growls back, setting the bottle back on the table. He curls his toes against the cheap leather of the sofa and shifts his hips to make himself more comfortable.

It's a minute or two before the American sidles over into Vladimir's range of vision, doing up the knot of his tie. Matt raises a questioning eyebrow behind his sunglasses. He's dressed in a dark grey business suit, though the blond can't think of why one would change into a suit in the afternoon.

"Matt, help me walk to bathroom," Vladimir demands weakly, raising both arms in the air, like a child asking to be carried. The movement, as with every other today, brings about a fresh wave of pain. He can see a plethora of bruises along his arms and legs – purples and blues, nowhere close to healing – and can feel the _contusions_ on his back and abdomen.

"Okay," Matt says, finishing the knot of his tie, and then trailing over to the couch, legs a mere inch from brushing against the coffee table. Vladimir notes that the bag of pills and whatnot is gone, but his frown doesn't falter his arms.

The vigilante leans down close, hands finding Vladimir's armpits and slipping past them, grasping at the back of the ribs. The blond latches onto Matt's shoulders, hooking behind his neck to hang on, whilst being hoisted into the air at a steady pace. Vladimir lets his legs fall from the couch, feet scrambling to catch on the cheap rug.

"If you drop me-" the Russian threatens brusquely, tightening his hold on the other man's neck, blunt fingernails scrabbling at the material of the suit jacket.

"I got you," the brunet huffs, hauling Vladimir upright. Once standing, the taller releases one of his arms, leaving the other around Matt's shoulders, clinging tightly. He has to grit his teeth against the pain.

" _Vy dolzhny_ ," he says, words garbled from the body-wide aches.

Matt must notice the wince, because he keeps his left arm around Vladimir, clutched under the Russian's arm to support him. Vladimir appreciates it, but makes no comment.

After a few minutes, they struggle back to the living room, and the brunet deposits Vladimir on the couch in a manner that's almost gentle. Almost.

The blond settles into the couch with as few movements as possible, gritting his teeth as he strains the stitches but pulls none of them, he hopes. But he discovers something is wrong when Matt hesitates by the coffee table. Vladimir narrows his eyes at the American.

"You have nothing better to do? Leave me alone," he growls out.

The vigilante chuckles, then clears his throat. "Funnily enough, I _am_ leaving. I'll be back in a few hours. You can survive on your own until then," he explains.

" _Chto_?" Vladimir sputters, incredulous, "I cannot move from couch, Matt. What if there is fire? Or _lakey_ of Fisk, yes?"

"Scream," the American smirks, adjusting his tie.

The blond glowers back, "Yeah, fuck you too, _mudak. Ya nadeyus' ty umresh' v ogne_."

"What was that?" is the sarcastic reply.

"I hope you die in fire," Vladimir huffs. He's getting tired again, and not at all in the mood for translating. "Where are you going?"

"Visiting a friend," the vigilante mumbles back, seemingly growing bored with the conversation as he shuffles his inexpensive leather shoes. Vladimir knows his consciousness ebbing away, sleep beckoning, unwelcome.

" _Bez raznitsy_ ," the blond says, and not staying awake long enough to hear if there's a reply. He allows his eyelids to flutter closed, and despite the hysterical busyness of New York, all is quiet.

"Another fruitless day, if you must ask," Foggy sighs, leaning on the door jamb while Matt walks through into the small apartment. It smells the same way it always does, of cheap takeout, dust, and the cologne Foggy is currently enjoying.

"Really?" the brunet asks as he raises an eyebrow and tucks his cane under his free arm. He walks to where he knows the kitchen bench is and runs his free hand over the laminate counter-top, despite knowing its exact location.

"Yep. But of course, you brought your beer over," Foggy says, cheery. He closes the door, flicks the latch. "And so the day improves."

"Indeed," the vigilante agrees, placing the cooler bag containing said beer – a baker's dozen of bottles of the cheap German stuff Matt likes and Foggy doesn't mind. Now, it doesn't matter if the brunet likes it or not, since he won't consume alcohol in the foreseeable future.

He opens the bag regardless, fishing out a beer for his friend, and holding it out in that general direction. Foggy takes the bottle with a rumbling laugh.

"Sober!" he proclaims, trying to open his first beer of the night with his teeth. Matt chuckles when the attempt fails; Foggy hisses in pain, and resorts to using the bottle opener the brunet brought over. After a gulp or two, Foggy laughs again.

Matt asks after Mrs. Cardenas – Foggy loses the smile – and the conversation rolls on from there. The future of _Nelson and Murdock_ , Mrs. Cardenas' case, Foggy's healing laceration on his side. Foggy makes reasonable complaints about it though the vigilante is sure it's nothing compared to what Vladimir's suffering back home.

Matt has no sympathy for him. The Russian brought it on himself, working with Fisk, human trafficking, orchestrating the transport of drug mules, kidnapping that boy, having Claire kidnapped. His brother dying...

Time passes hell for leather this way. Foggy and Matt talk, the seriousness waxing and waning. The blond lawyer works his way through six beers by the time the conversation is winding down. Matt feels a slight itch all over, not intuition that something is wrong, but rather the need to make sure it's all okay. Fisk is a dangerous man and the vigilante gets the sinking suspicion that Fisk knows, by now, that Vladimir survived that fateful night.

They'd moved to sit on Foggy's couch at one point – a patchwork, musty old thing with poking springs – and Foggy had naturally brought the remaining beers with him.

"I can't believe it, Matty. You've just- you've gotta tell me why," he slurs.

"Why, what?" the brunet echoes with a smile.

"Why, sober?"

Matt inhales sharply and plays the noise off as a sigh. "I," he hesitates, "after the night of the bombings, when I was hurt, I was a little tipsy at the time. It reminded me how vulnerable I am, can be, in Hell's Kitchen, with all this going on. A wake-up call."

Foggy nods, hair swishing with the movement, "Sure, I get it. Well, sorta. You've got me, though, y'know. Matt. We're best friends, avocadoes at law! I'm just glad you're feeling better. You know what? You should stay over. Like college, talking into the night."

"Like ten-year-old girls, at sleepovers?" the vigilante asks, tone sarcastic.

"I don't know if ten-year-olds should have access to beer, that illegal. We should know," Foggy says pointedly, plonking his seventh finished beer bottle on the coffee table before them. It's older than Matt's, and about as close to breaking.

"I can't stay all night, Foggy. I have to get home sometime," he admits, resting one hand on his own knee while the other holds his folded-up cane.

"Why, Matt? You can stay here anytime, buddy," Foggy is still offering, sounding nothing like the ten-year-old girls he jokes of.

"No, I'd better go," the brunet decides, "make sure my apartment hasn't burned down."

"What?"

"Nothing," Matt laughs softly, and resents to call his words an inside joke, even in his own mind. Everything always appears to be burning, a 'world on fire' and whatnot. That's why he said it.

"Okay, if you've gotta leave," Foggy sighs, but Matt can tell he's smiling as the other lawyer claps his shoulder, "see you tomorrow, though, right?"

"Tomorrow," the vigilante confirms, and stands from the couch. Foggy follows him to the door, and the two part with another exchange of well wishes.

The walk home is scarcely a dozen blocks, and despite it being the start of spring, it's a cold night. Matt checks his watch a street away from Foggy's; three minutes past seven o'clock. He'd spent hours there, without meaning to at all. He needed it, though, the freedom of spending time with his best friend and not being at odds – or tension-filled agreement – with the criminal on his couch.

Even this thought of restriction itself is sobering, that the criminal on his couch is altering his life already, ingraining the man and his ailment-induced needs into every aspect. Things as simple as hanging out with Foggy, any alcohol in his apartment, and whatever he'll do about crime fighting, Vladimir's presence has an influence

Matt reasons it'll be worth it, to get the information necessary to take down Fisk, to _actually_ cleanse the city of such an influence. And so, as he ascends the steps to his apartment, cane withdrawn from its normal click-click, the vigilante remains calm.

The apartment itself smells no different from when he left it, and the Russian's heartbeat continues to thump away in its waking state. Matt unlocks the door and eases it open. Vladimir seems to notice, shifting on the couch and clearing his throat, to speak.

"Matt?" he calls. "That is you?"

"Yeah," Matt says, closing the door and locking it behind him once more. Vladimir's heartbeat steadies in relaxation.

" _Ey, mudak_. Turn lights on, yes? How you see anything? _Radi boga_ ," The criminal replies, disgusted.

A chill sluices through Matt. He'd bypassed the light switch on his way in, as he's done ever since he moved in, as he did at the orphanage. He only picked up the habit of turning the light on in his college dorm room, so he wouldn't scar the life from Foggy by 'hiding in the dark'.

The brunet chooses not to reply and instead flips the switch for the living room. "Shouldn't you sleep, anyway?" he asks, exhausted himself, and in dire need of a shower.

"Soon. Have been sleeping," Vladimir says, and the American thinks if the blond were standing, he'd shrug.

Matt makes his way to where he'd stashed the medicine bag, retrieves two more ibuprofen pills, and then takes another water bottle from the fridge.

"Matt?" Vladimir croaks, tone uncertain.

"Yes?" the American replies as he approaches.

"More water," is the demand.

Matt chuckles, and places both the bottle and tablets in the blond's waiting hands. "You're welcome," the vigilante says when he receives no thanks.

Vladimir hums an agreement before downing the pills and water. The Russian's heartbeat stutters as he downs the frigid water and painkillers, followed by a full-body tremor of a shiver. Matt notices the cold has indeed seeped into the apartment just as the night has.

"Cold?" the American finds himself asking, all of a sudden.

" _Kholod? Net_ ," Vladimir scoffs, putting the bottle on the coffee table with the other one. He shuffles on the couch, shifting to face the back of the sofa rather than Matt.

Seconds later, the Russian moves again, craning his head back to check if the vigilante is still there. Matt raises an eyebrow.

The only answer he receives is a huff before the blond resumes his previous position of having a staring contest with the back of the couch. Matt smirks at the petulant display, then walks off to his bedroom. He removes his glasses, places them on the dresser.

After a quick shower – careful to not reopen any just-healed wounds – Matt is weary. Dressed in warm pyjamas for the cold night, he plans to trail from the bathroom to his bed, unstoppable. However, after he puts down his toothbrush, the lawyer finds his focus shifting to check on Vladimir.

The criminal is almost completely still in sleep, seldom moving more than his toes. His near silent in his breaths are a little unsteady, but the heartbeat is strong. Matt finds his feet carrying him to the lounge room cupboard. Before he can think better of it, he takes out one of two spare quilts. It's an old patchwork thing, with down inside and cotton out. The brunet never uses it.

He closes the cupboard, wanders to the sofa, and folds it open. Matt swathes the quilt over Vladimir, still curled into the couch, away from the world. Content with the lazy swaddling, the vigilante turns away and walks back to his room, careful to tread lightly. As he slides the door so it's almost closed, and then climbs into his silk sheets, Matt lets out the tired breaths that have been welling up in his chest, yawning wide.

Slumber overtakes him before the day's troubles can begin their haunting. Matt tunes out the sounds of the city – car engines, nightclub music, bickering, yelling, laughing, crying – and instead falls asleep to the sound of a heartbeat.

* * *

Russian:

perezhit' / пережить ~ outlive  
Da / Да ~ Yes  
nazhmite, snova i snova / нажмите, снова и снова ~ press, again and again  
sendvich / сэндвич ~ sandwich  
mudak / мудак ~ asshole  
Vy dolzhny. / Вы должны. ~ You ought to / You must  
lakey / лакей ~ lackey  
Ya nadeyus' ty umresh' v ogne / Я надеюсь ты умрешь в огне ~ I hope you die in a fire  
Bez raznitsy / без разницы. ~ Whatever / No difference.  
radi boga / ради бога ~ for God's sake  
Kholod? Net. / Холод? Нет. ~ Cold? No.  
Sorry if this is incorrect; please let me know if it is :)


	4. All So Battered and Brought to the-

**Full chapter title: All So Battered and Brought to the Ground**

(From _How Can You Be Sure?_ by Radiohead)

* * *

"Vladimir," Matt says in a sleepy tone.

A sniffle is all the response the Vladimir in question is willing to give. He shuffles his shoulders, curls tighter in on himself, facing the couch.

"It's past seven o'clock, you've been sleeping all night, you slept most of yesterday, you have medicine to take. Wake up," the vigilante continues, monotone.

The morning isn't as cold as the Russian remembers the night being. From the sniffle, and the movement, he notices something is different. Warmth encircles him from head to toe, with the quilt tucked up to cover his chin. He snuffles violently, eyes blowing wide, and he jerks away from the leather in front of his face.

With a tetchy groan, Vladimir rolls onto his back, gazing up at the brunet with sleep-ridden eyes. "It is too early," he says with a lour, "I am sick. Be kind."

It's also too early for sunglasses, he reasons, and yet, there Matt stands, rose lenses settled on his nose. Vladimir ponders their colour; maybe the vigilante has heterochromia, or a lazy eye, or something.

"The billboard didn't bother you?" the American asks.

"No. I turned away from it. I sleeped through the night," Vladimir murmurs, distracted by the mysterious appearance of a small trash on the floor, by the leg of the sofa closest to him.

"You slept through the night," Matt corrects, though his volume is barely above a mutter as he plucks the empty water bottles from the table. He walks away, already dressed in a black suit, but wearing socks devoid of shoes to accompany them. "You're not allergic to anything, are you?" he calls.

" _Allergiya_? No," the Russian replies, "except bullets." He chuckles while the vigilante huffs. It's lost in the sound of water running.

"Pills first, then breakfast. Two different antibiotics," Matt announces. "Do you feel nauseous?" he asks when he soon returns with two bottles and two tablets in calloused hands.

Vladimir, basking in the warmth of the quilt, gives the American a blank stare. "What does 'nauseous' mean?"

"Sick, as in vomiting."

"Okay. The answer is no. I feel hungry. Do you have more food?" Vladimir asks, ready to welcome anything at this point. Almost any dish can be a breakfast, in his opinion, as long as it's filling.

"Medicine first," Matt says succinctly, brandishing the pills again and setting one bottle on the table. "Amoxicillin, and moxifloxacin, antibiotics," is the only explanation.

The blond finds it too early to notice much beyond the rings under Matt's eyes and less stubble than yesterday. Matt also has less of a frown when the blond snatches the tablets and remaining water bottle. He downs the pills, drains the water, and runs his tongue over his dry lips.

"Why did you give me this–?" Vladimir hesitates, not quite sure of the word to use as he deposits the plastic bottle on the coffee table. It sways and twirls, threatening to topple over.

Matt doesn't react, standing a few feet from the couch, waiting for the other man to elaborate.

"This," Vladimir tries again, and instead of saying 'blanket' in Russian or describing it, simply grabs the edge of the quilt and shakes it violently. The colours are dull in the sunlight, the patchwork squares made from curtain-like materials that was ugly when they were designed, and the assembly of so many is even more repugnant.

"You were cold. I didn't save you so you could freeze to death on my couch," the brunet says almost softly, caught somewhere between dark comedy and sympathy.

Something warm and unwelcome tugs at the edge of Vladimir's chest; he squashes it with a scoff. "I was not cold, _durak_. And this is ugly, it hurts to look at; I wake up and see this," he says, brandishing the faded fabric, "and it smells like _naftalinom, razlagayushchikhsya veshchi_."

Matt raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Old people, also," the Russian adds with a shudder. The grossed-out expression is replaced by a smile.

Matt clears his throat, raising a fist to cover the cough, "I have some questions to ask," he says, "before breakfast." He takes a seat in the same armchair as yesterday, sitting back but not quite lounging.

The blond plants a hand on either side of himself, digging his palms into the sofa and pushing away, hauling himself to sit up a little more. He cranes his neck forward when drinking the water, finding it too difficult to move enough to rest upright at the moment.

"What?" he asks, tone conversational despite the pain rippling through his body from earlier movements.

"Do you have any money hidden somewhere? An account," the American says, pausing for a split second to wet his lips, "a safe deposit box, a safe house Fisk didn't know about?"

Vladimir narrows his eyes at Matt, then turns away to gaze out the window instead. If he were well, he'd cross his arms as he replies, "I do not know what you are talking of, Matt."

"You do realise this surgery wasn't free, Vladimir? I don't care about stealing what you made trafficking innocent people and moving heroin," the vigilante's tone darkens. For once, Vladimir is glad he doesn't have to look into Matt's eyes.

"I don't know if the money is still there. You think I take stock when everything was exploding? I don't know which buildings Fisk exploded, who survived, what is left," the blond rambles, saying what thoughts he doesn't wish to dwell on. A hollow feeling in his gut tells him it's all gone, the empire he and Anatoly were building. Then again, this 'feeling' may just be the bullet wound messing with him.

Matt is persistent. "Tell me all of them, then," he says, moving his hands from where they rested on his knees to clasp and intertwine in a nervous – or is it anticipatory? – pattern.

Vladimir levels the brunet with a calculating frown. "After breakfast," he concludes.

"Now," Matt bites back immediately.

"After breakfast," the Russian says, not bothering with a glare. Matt has said it before: he didn't save Vladimir just to kill him, or even allow him to die. The vigilante brought Vladimir to a doctor, for goodness' sake. The blond thinks it's probably just ingrained morals, or an overbearing sense of justice, or maybe even some deluded heroic streak. Whatever the reason, Matt won't to allow Vladimir to be hurt, much less inflict it himself.

The American frowns, though with his eyes hidden, Vladimir can't tell if it's puzzled or pitying. "Some medicine has to be taken before food and some has to be taken with food. I have a real, legal job to go to in an hour, so I don't have the time to wait for you to find the right mood for answering my questions. Tell me where the safe houses are."

"Fine," Vladimir grouches. The vigilante darts off and returns with a notebook and pen after some loud rummaging through side-table drawers. Matt settles into one of the ugly armchairs, the fabric a colour Vladimir can only liken to mouldy American mustard. The blond lists the four residential addresses he and Anatoly were renting as either living or safe houses (or safe apartments, that would be more accurate).

Matt's pen scratches away at the paper slowly in handwriting Vladimir can conclude is the most childish English script he's ever seen. He doesn't know what's going to happen now with the apartments, if they're not all smithereens. Stop renting them, clear out the stuff that aren't owned by the landlord, move it... here? But he's in no position to do this himself, leading to his uncertainty. "But you are not going to these places, yes?" he asks.

Matt scoffs, placing the notepad and pen on the coffee table to instead intertwine his fingers tightly in his lap. "Why, it's your 'personal space'?" he asks, leaning back in the armchair.

The Russian narrows his eyes and sniffs before replying. "No. Not all mine, anyway, _govnyuk_. Where do you think Fisk will look for me? He hopes I am dead, but he will search anyway. If you go there, you go into a trap."

Matt's expression softens; the blond can feel his own heart pick up its pace in panic, afraid of his words being misconstrued, or too heavily analysed.

"And then Fisk wins," Vladimir adds. "No dying, Matt."

The vigilante considers this and then nods his assent. "I think it's time for breakfast," he says, standing from the armchair. He moves the notepad and pen to be held only in his left hand while his right pushes up the sleeve of his jacket to run a hand over his watch.

Matt flicks up the glass cover on the face to gingerly brush his fingertips over the wristwatch's hands. Vladimir gives the watch a death-glare. Why not have a normal one? How do you accurately tell the time like that? Isn't it easier to read it with your eyes? Did no-one ever teach Matt how to read clocks?

"Strange watch," Vladimir says, tone calculating.

Matt's grip on the notepad visibly tightens and his step falters. He continues walking away after a second, shrugging. "You could say that," he murmurs, clicking the watch cover shut.

"What is the time?"

"Half past seven," Matt says dismissively, receiving a scowl until he's out of Vladimir's glaring range.

The Russian redirects his gaze out the window to survey the cityscape; or, what little of it is visible from Matt's admittedly spacious apartment. The adjacent building is nice enough, brick clean and fire escapes not quite disintegrating, while scaffolding gives empty promises of improvements. Vladimir has no clue what storey this apartment is on, only that it's not the ground floor; he wonders what occupation Matt has that could pay so well for such an apartment, in the middle of New York City.

"What is your job?" the blond muses aloud over the sounds of Matt milling around the kitchen.

No reply.

"Or are you just _gorgul'ya_ , sitting on rooftops and waiting for people to punch?" Vladimir hollers.

Matt chuckles at this, pouring what sounds like cereal into ceramic. "Gargoyles aren't protectors. Originally, they were decorative waterspouts, made to divert the flow of rainwater off the building instead of down it, saving the masonry. Some Catholic churches and cathedrals built them as gargoyles to make them illustrations of evil," he says. "Very funny. I'm not a gargoyle."

Vladimir chuckles at the vigilante's denial, though he didn't quite understand the rest of what was said. He barks, "Matt, help me to the bathroom."

"Okay. Sit up first, and I'll be there in a minute," Matt yawns.

Vladimir hums back a guttural groan of understanding and hauls himself up to sit straight on the end of the couch furthest from the window. His feet brush the floor before settling lightly on the rug there while his spine settles into the back of the sofa. Toes curl, struggling to find purchase on the short fabric of the rug while fingers grip the quilt rumpled around him as grounding against the pain and fatigue. There's no threat of boredom when Vladimir can barely stay awake for half an hour at a time.

He screws his eyes shut and improves his posture to better heave in breaths to helping him focus on getting past the pain of movement at the moment. The darkness of his eyelids infected with red-hued light through flesh from the outside sun is barely more calming than looking at the unfamiliar apartment.

"Are you okay?" the vigilante asks bluntly, all of a sudden close once more. Vladimir's eyes shoot open to see Matt, who places the bowl and three pills on the coffee table.

" _Normal'no_ ," Vladimir grunts, releasing his death-grip on the blanket, "tired." He raises both arms toward Matt; the brunet obliges and helps Vladimir stand from the sofa.

The equally exhausted men trample to the bathroom and back almost without error. It's on the return trip that Vladimir doesn't quite make the transition from floorboard to rug, foot catching on the fabric. He stumbles to the floor, his left hand's grip the neck of Matt's jacket slipping while his right arm flails forward to break his fall.

There's no sickening crack, no tearing of stitches, but it doesn't feel good, either. Vladimir misses the coffee table to fall flat on the rug.

"Vladimir-" Matt starts, distressed.

"Am fine," the Russian snaps, head twisted to avoid being mashed into the rug, bringing his hands up beside his chest and shakily pushing away from the ground. Matt is having none of it, leaning down to snake his arms around Vladimir's ribs and lifting the blond up from the floor so they're torso to torso.

Vladimir lets out a confused grunt – a gasp-like grunt, perhaps, but that doesn't matter. Matt hauls the injured man to the sofa and lets go after putting Vladimir down more gracefully than the latter thought possible.

Matt huffs when he takes a step back from the sofa. Vladimir diverts his gaze to the window, right hand clenching and relaxing to test how much damage it suffered in the fall. It doesn't hurt much more than the rest of his body, really, so he deems it fine.

"You sure you're okay?" the vigilante asks, sniffling.

"Yes," Vladimir says dismissively.

"Hungry?" the American asks, demanding Vladimir's attention return to him and the bowl he's picked up.

"Yes, that also," Vladimir makes grabby hands for the food, not quite able to lean forward and take hold of it after the pain induced by the fall. Matt obliges, passing over the bowl filled with bran cereal and milk and laden with a soupspoon. He then walks off with a curt nod, muttering something about medicine.

It's not a disaster, per se, but Vladimir quickly realises this is much harder than the sandwich pieces yesterday. Those were less catastrophic if dropped, being not sopping wet and all. Also, he'd been half-lying down, popping the food into his mouth with ease from the plate resting on his chest. The bowl in his lap serves a greater challenge.

At least if something spills, it'll spill on the ugly quilt, Vladimir supposes.

He uses a tighter grip on the spoon than before, glad that Matt has left him alone to eat. The vigilante is refilling the water bottles to be ready for the pills sitting in a small glass cup on the coffee table. A muscle in Vladimir's wrist spasms involuntarily, hand shaking, sending mushy bran and milk sloshing back into the bowl. He mutters a curse, scoops up more cereal, and tries again despite the pain in his wrist. This time, he drops the spoon altogether, sending it clattering down to the black ceramic.

The Russian grits his teeth, intending to continue (trying) to eat the stupid cereal, though he hasn't gotten past the first mouthful.

"Are you okay?" Matt echoes his earlier question, reappearing to dump the bottled water on the low table.

"Fine," Vladimir grates out and tries once more. He drops the spoon again and has to resist the urge to hurl the bowl across the room.

Matt frowns at this behind his sunglasses, worming around the coffee table to sit beside Vladimir. The blond eyes Matt suspiciously, unsure of what he plans on doing.

"Your wrist is hurt; sprained, I think. Here, let me," Matt murmurs, one graceful hand reaching out for the spoon, swishing it around to get an adequate amount of bran mush onto it, and then raising the soupspoon in the air.

Vladimir eyes the offending object incredulously, glancing from it to its holder. After a second of consideration, he realises Matt isn't going to move the spoon any closer from where it is, hovering in front of his chin. Vladimir decides food is more important than pride in this moment and swoops in on the spoon, teeth clacking against the metal.

The cereal is as bland as it looks, tasting only of wheat that's made tolerable by whole milk. It only takes a few seconds to eat. When Matt hesitates with the empty spoon, Vladimir nods in lieu of using words. It becomes a cycle too quickly for Vladimir to read too much into it, though he finds it a little strange that Matt appears to be staring into the middle-distance behind his glasses the whole time. When the cereal is finished, the vigilante hastens away with the bowl and spoon to the kitchen.

"Take your medicine," he calls over the noise of running tap water.

Vladimir, deciding to interpret that as a reminder rather than a command, leans forward to grab the glass containing the pills with his uninjured left hand. They rattle as he brings the rim of the glass to his lips, downing all three at once before setting the glass back down none too gently. The tablets are followed by a gulp from the water bottle, once picked up and opened.

Matt seems nervous when he returns from the kitchen, twitchy, almost. "I have to go to work," he announces, not a trace of nerves in his voice. His stance is rigid and yet something close to sheepish, as he stands by the armchair. "I'll come back in the middle of the day, around lunchtime. You'll be fine until then." It's not a question.

Vladimir squirms, still seated upright on the sofa. "But, you must also change the bandages, yes?" he asks.

The American frowns. "I think you can do it, I'll grab the new bandages," he says. Vladimir thinks that's just a little idiotic.

"I can not. My wrist- and I can not see where the bandages go, if stitches are torn," he protests, left hand trailing over the hospital gown where he knows the bullet ripped through his skin.

He looks up at the vigilante with wide, beseeching eyes. Matt doesn't react, silence giving way to the sounds of the city waking that Vladimir had grown used to long ago; engines humming, chatter, car horns, construction not too far away.

"Please," Vladimir says.

Matt's expressions softens. He nods before walking off to wash his hands and retrieve the paper bag of assorted pills and medical supplies. The brunet returns to stand before the couch, bag in hand. "Lay down, so your head is closest to the window," he says with his usual precision.

As soon as Vladimir does so – with difficulty and caring to not put much weight on his right wrist – Matt puts the bag on the ground and sinks to his knees by the sofa. One calloused hand moves gingerly under Vladimir's torso, reaching his spine and grabbing the thin edge of fabric he finds. Vladimir shifts his weight to his left side, allowing the vigilante access to undo the tie there, and shuck the cotton up and away enough to get to the bandages.

Vladimir lies down fully once more, eyes watching the other man's movements of peeling away the medical tape and lifting up the bandage square. Underneath is a neat row of stitches separating jagged, burned skin. The flesh surrounding the line is pinkish red and slightly swollen, with minimal fluid exuded from the fixed wound.

"What would you say the colour of the wound is?" Matt asks as he removes the rest of the bandages, folding it in on itself and placing it clean side down on the low table.

"Pink," Vladimir huffs through gritted teeth, wishing the pain relievers would kick in. The more he's woken up, the more the pain of the gunshot wound has returned in spite of it getting better.

"No green or yellow, or red streaks?" Matt says, grabbing a new square bandage and a roll of medical tape from the depths of the brown paper bag.

"No," Vladimir confirms, wincing as Matt runs the pad of a single finger over the stitches. Matt seems to notice, retracting his finger to instead place the new bandage over the wound and then tape it in place.

The brunet avoids Vladimir's gaze, retreating immediately by standing and taking the old dressing with him, leaving to wash his hands and throw away the bandage. He wastes no time in replacing the tape in the bag and whisking it away.

Vladimir wriggles his shoulders, attempting to sink into the sofa with the help of the pillow nestled between the couch cushion and armrest. The bottles on the coffee table are no longer in reach, but he feels safer being able to see more of the apartment, including the entry corridor.

Soon enough, Matt is ready to leave, briefcase in hand and calmer than before. "Midday, I'll come back; just a few hours from now. Try not to walk unless completely necessary. Don't pull any stitches. Drink all your water," he recites. Vladimir rolls his eyes.

"Yes, yes, I will not burn the building, you go to your job. _Khoroshego dnya_ ," the blond says sarcastically, "and no dying."

Matt smirks, before turning on his heel, walking swiftly from the main living area to round the corner of the hallway. Vladimir hears the door open and shut, followed by a faint clicking noise that fades within seconds. He mentally waves it off as his imagination, or the floor, and tugs his pale blue hospital gown to cover the new bandage. He shifts his feet, realising the quilt is bunched at the other end of the sofa.

After a moment he gives in to the slight chill of the apartment, citing a lack of proper clothing and near-fatal injury as reason enough to kick up the blanket. Once it's within reach, he grabs and pulls the heavy fabric up to his breastbone. Fatigue returns within minutes, allowing the pain to recede, light to become less harsh, and Vladimir to fall back asleep.

* * *

Russian:  
durak / дурак ~ fool  
naftalinom / нафталином ~ mothballs/naphthalene  
razlagayushchikhsya veshchi / разлагающихся вещи. ~ decaying things  
allergiya / аллергия ~ allergy  
govnyuk / говнюк ~ shithead  
gorgul'ya / горгулья ~ gargoyle  
Normal'no / Нормально ~ Fine  
Khoroshego dnya / Хорошего дня ~ Have a nice day  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	5. Going to Hell in a Handbasket

Matt isn't paying attention when two new heartbeats joins the floor; healthy, blood flowing and muscles contracting as they should. His initial flinch relaxes a little as he realises the deeper one is not going fast enough to be anticipatory of something dangerous. The higher-pitched heartbeat seems to be that of a young child. Within seconds, there's a knock of the barely hinged door of the office space.

"Hello," Karen says kindly, voice distorted by the wall between her and Matt. The brunet stands from his desk, snapping his laptop shut with ease before exiting the room.

"Hi," the new woman huffs. Matt thinks she might be smiling. She smells of cheap deodorant and similar shampoo, of printer ink and hand sanitiser.

Matt focuses on the boy perched on her hip. He must be only two or three years old, has dog hair on his overalls, and ate fairy bread before the train ride here.

"I'm Elaine Bradshaw. You're lawyers, right?" the woman asks.

"Uh, I'm not, but this is a law firm, yes," Karen gushes, wiping her palm on her skirt before shaking the other woman's outstretched hand. Elaine releases her hold on Karen and turns to Matt.

"Sorry," Elaine says when she realises he isn't (or shouldn't be) able to shake back, adjusting her grip on the toddler.

"It's fine, nice to meet you. So, what brings you to Nelson and Murdock, Ms. Bradshaw?" Matt asks, voice smooth. He listens to what's happening in Foggy's office with ease, noting his friend is still trying to print pages from one of the shoddy fax machines Karen bought.

Elaine huffs again. "I need a lawyer for a property settlement," she explains. "I broke up with my partner – we weren't married – and he's saying the apartment is his, even though we bought it together. All my stuff is still there! I'm staying at a friend's house, for now, but I can't afford to buy a new place."

Foggy bustles out of his office, papers left behind. He introduces himself with his best attempt at being suave, "Hi, I'm Franklin Nelson."

"Hello," Elaine shakes his hand and adjusts the child on her hip.

"And who's this with you?" Karen asks; the brunet is sure she smiles, from the sweet tone of her voice. She's recovered well from the night of the explosions, minor cuts and bruises not affecting her whatsoever. Her work, consisting of figuring out the fax machines and sitting at her desk in wait of a client, has been chugging along all morning.

"My son, Jeremy," Elaine says, heart-rate relaxing, "he's not related to my partner – er, ex-partner – so there's no custody issues. Right?"

"Right. So, for the property settlement, we'll probably have to go to court. That is, unless your ex-partner will negotiate an agreement," Matt reels the conversation back in, "but we've got to talk to your landlord first. Do you have a car, or any other property there's dispute over?"

"I don't have a car, we use public transport. The apartment doesn't come with a parking space, either. It's only seven hundred foot square, but it's two-bedroom. He doesn't need the two bedrooms," Elaine says earnestly.

"Okay, we can figure out the arguments in a minute, we just need a bit more information first, please. What's your occupation?" Foggy asks.

Karen nods and turns away, "I'll get a notebook, write everything down," she says over her shoulder.

"I work in accounts, for a software company based in Canada; Naos Limited. I work from home three days a week and go into the office in Queens for two. Before you ask, I take Jeremy to daycare on those days, I don't just leave him at home," Elaine huffs a stray lock of hair from her face.

Jeremy has remained quiet and well-behaved, head moving to look around, one small fist clutched to his chest and chubby toddler legs swinging, but otherwise idle.

"And how old is Jeremy?" Matt asks.

"Ask him," Elaine says.

"She shrugged," Foggy commentates.

"How old are you, Jeremy?" the vigilante asks in Jeremy's general direction.

Jeremy unfurls his fist and holds up two fingers.

"He can't see that, honey. Say how old you are," Elaine mumbles into her son's ear.

"Two," he whispers.

"Two?" Matt asks.

"And a half," Jeremy adds a little more confidently. "Why can't you see how many? Is it your glasses?"

"I can't see anything," Matt smiles, "it's not the glasses. I'm blind." There, that wasn't too hard. Why he didn't tell Vladimir about his blindness yesterday morning, Matt doesn't know. It seems the time has passed when he can mention it and move on. Not that it'd be easy to explain, even using the classic line, 'there are other ways to see' he began with for Claire.

Jeremy curls his hand into a fist again, nodding. Elaine pats her son's shoulder. "I'll set you down now," she says, and does so.

This morning, Matt had been rereading legislation and corresponding case files on his laptop via the refreshable Braille display to quell the nervousness that's still settled in his belly. It was annoying to read little by little, but he tried earphones earlier this morning and was gifted with a headache rather than knowledge.

He's grateful Elaine Bradshaw has turned up on the doorstep of Nelson and Murdock. She's acting as a great distraction from the worry at the edge of the vigilante's mind, unchanging in its intensity but persistent in its existence.

Matt checks the time absentmindedly, revealing it's just past midday. He's been putting off going home for lunch all day, but as time slips away, a small dose of guilt pervades him.

"Karen, could you double-check the details of the case with Ms. Bradshaw?" he asks.

The secretary nods, holding her notebook up to read it easier and edging towards her desk. Elaine follows, hand clasped with Jeremy's as he toddles forward.

"Foggy, could I speak to you for a second? In your office?" Matt says aside to his friend, deciding he ought to get back home, whether he likes it or not.

"Sure," Foggy says, sidestepping through the door and closing it behind the other lawyer. "So, pretty great, right? A case! And she even seems like she could be paying us, with money," he whispers.

"It's great," Matt says, "I wanted to ask, is it okay if I went home, for an hour or so? I know we've got a new case, but my headache is coming back-" he gestures a waving hand to his 'pained' cranium.

"Yeah, that sucks," Foggy's tone softens, "just get back here when you're feeling a bit better. I hope it gets better."

"Me too," Matt says, with a little too much meaning in his agreement.

To say Vladimir is used to being lonely is not entirely correct. He's familiar with the feeling from both his time in Utkin (and other prisons) when separated from his brother, and similar childhood memories he shoves away each time they rear their unwelcome heads. Having experienced various forms of loneliness, Vladimir knows he doesn't care for most of them.

Occasional reprieves from managing the small-scale, now-extinguished mafia were relieving. Lying in his once-enemy's apartment, wounded and broken, is nothing of the sort.

And during the night, before falling asleep, all that's out the window is the dumb billboard and the grimy building next door. Even if Vladimir could see the sky, there are no stars visible in Hell's Kitchen.

The blond is bored, lonely, and sleeplessly sleepy. The gunshot wound is continuing its throbbing ache; bruises make their presence known with every minute movement. Even if he succumbed to his injuries, on this sofa or in the sewers, no-one would care; no-one left behind. The only person still alive that might have a semblance of a negative feeling upon Vladimir's death in the Man in the Mask, for loss of information against Fisk. Matt would probably be happy, overall, rid of the ill mess relying on him for everything, eating his food and taking up his space.

A choking sob works its way to audibility in the Russian's tight throat, though he quells the noise with a heavy swallow, trying to remove smooth the lump formed. There's no use getting upset over the facts. There's nothing to be upset over, anyway; he had it coming.

Vladimir thinks maybe he doesn't deserve anyone to care about him. Not when he let Anatoly go alone to speak to Fisk. Not when he only noticed Gao's suicide bomber waltzing into the warehouse after it was too late. Not when he was on the warpath to destroy Fisk without any viable plan. Not when Matt put his own life in danger to haul Vladimir to safety.

So no, he reasons he doesn't deserve anyone to care about his eventual death. He's not sure he deserves each scrape of air in and out of his lungs, doing nothing but lying here.

" _Na dannyy moment_ ," he mutters, words clearing the lump in his throat well enough. He shifts on the brown leather sofa cushions, left hand moving idly to scratch at his upper thigh through the hospital gown. The plastic-coated cotton isn't too itchy, but it's nowhere near as comfortable as the expensive clothes Vladimir had worn in New York, before the explosions. More than being uncomfortable, the fabric is getting old, fast; threads here and there becoming weak under his touch, body odour beginning to permeate the fabric on his torso.

The apartment itself has no discernible smells about it, to Vladimir (about from the stupid quilt that's still over his lower half, the ugly, smelly-). No food is cooking or sitting out, no incense or candles burning, no air freshener that sprays chemicals around periodically.

Matt seems to be the only element that adds aromas to the muggy NYC air as far as the loft is concerned; Vladimir assumes it's a loft, as he's already spent several scattered hours observing the rafters high above.

The vigilante owner of said supposed-loft always smells faintly of blood and healing wounds, masked by hypoallergenic soap and deodorant. Or, at least, the blond assumes Matt uses hypoallergenic stuff, for the lack of strong odour most of those products give off.

As for Vladimir's other senses, pain confirms touch, the sandwiches tasted as mediocre as one can expect from days-old bread, and he can see just fine. His hearing was shot to hell the night of the explosions, ears ringing and balance wavering from the shockwave. He also remembers being unable to hold his own against the Man in the Mask in that alleyway fight.

Having a series of bombs triggered in the next room tends to hinder a person in a fistfight. That, and his opponent, had rendered Vladimir the loser from the beginning. And the reputation the Man in the Mask had garnered for himself was formidable in itself. The man Vladimir now knows as Matt is otherwise seen as the mysterious masked vigilante who had single-handedly – _with his bare hands_ – taken down droves of criminals. Namely, the Russians with guns in the Troika restaurant, the docks, and outside the warehouse.

" _D'yavol iz adskaya kukhnya_ ," Vladimir scoffs, though it turns out more mournful than scornful.

He hears the apartment door open not a minute later, swift footsteps following. The Russian flinches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the couch, meeting the quilt instead and slipping away.

"Calm down, it's just me," Matt's voice chimes dully, door clicking shut behind him.

Vladimir's previously neutral expression swells to a deep frown. "How do you know I was awake?" he asks, wishing it didn't hurt so much to sit up from his current position, lain on the couch.

"I didn't," the vigilante responds, "I guessed. It's easier than having you scramble off the couch to see who it is and pull a stitch or two." With the sound of Matt wafts in the scent of soup, muted by whatever container it's in; the smell is too strong to be leftover lunch or a stain.

"I would not," Vladimir protests. "Help me walk."

Matt leaves whatever the food is in the kitchen to help the blond traverse the apartment to the bathroom and back. Once resettled, Vladimir watches Matt leave to the kitchen once more, looking the same as he did this morning, minus the jacket.

"Did you bring food?"

"Tomato soup," Matt says casually, "it's not made of beetroots, I know-"

"So funny, so smart," Vladimir mocks, "are you _komik_ , Matt? Comedian?"

Matt takes part in some fumbling with cutlery, by the sound of it, and sighs. "I'm not telling you my job," he says and shuts the cutlery drawer with a small vengeance.

"Why not?" Vladimir asks, suspicious of the reason; Matt shared his name – it's got to be the brunet's real name, the way he answers to it (or tries to ignore Vladimir saying it). Not that the blond is a stunning example of not having a lying tongue. He thinks things will come to light sooner or later, considering he's living on Matt's couch for the foreseeable future.

The vigilante in question wanders to the couch regardless of Vladimir's question, dumping one bowl of tomato slush on the table. The soup threatens to slosh past its styrofoam confines, swishing and held back only by the clear, plastic lid.

Vladimir glares at it. Matt perches a metal soupspoon on the lid. Vladimir glares at that, too.

"I think you said my wrist is sprained, this morning," he says, glad he chose to sit upright when deposited back on the couch rather than lying down again. It's much easier to cling to Matt to get helped up than struggle upwards alone, regardless of however incapacitated it makes Vladimir feel.

Matt pauses opening his own bowl of soup to look at Vladimir, still with those silly glasses on. They don't detract from his handsome visage, not drastically, at least–

Vladimir catches the thought – left elbow threatening to buckle as he raises his torso from the couch – and hurls it out of the metaphorical window with vigour. "Fix it," he says, brandishing his right wrist and wincing at the induced pain.

"Food first," Matt says, sitting next to the Russian, taking the food from the table. He grabs the bowl and spoon to hold in one hand while the other pries off the lid.

Vladimir can't argue with that. He doesn't have the energy to suggest an attempt at eating with his left hand, rather than Matt having to feed him. Vladimir has a cut on his palm anyway, and bandaged as it may be, he doesn't want to stress it open. That's the excuse he's going with, anyway.

" _Oy_ ," Vladimir hisses, squirming, "be careful, Matt."

"I'm _being_ careful, Vladimir," Matt says; it's more of a mutter than a profound argument. He shifts the offending bandage up none too gently to secure the Russian's injured joint better.

"You are _being_ careless," the criminal mocks through gritted teeth, free hand gripping Matt's right bicep. Short nails threaten to cause crescents through layers of clothing each time Matt yanks the bandage too hard, or jostles Vladimir's arm.

"No, you're being distracting," Matt says sternly, adjusting the wrist settled on his knees. It's not only the chattering, but also the sickly raggedness of Vladimir's breathing, erratic thrum of his heart, and heat leeching through fabric and flesh from where their legs and arms touch from sitting so close.

"You are not even looking!" the Russian says, tone accusatory. Matt raises his head as if to look pointedly at Vladimir, and then returns his unseeing gaze to the injury at hand. They're both still seated on the couch, soup bowls scraped clean on the coffee table, Matt's shoddy first-aid kit sprawled alongside the takeaway tableware. It's good for sutures, sure, and cleaning out cuts, but that's about it.

The lawyer refuses to loosen his hold on the bandage roll, yanking it in place to snip away at with scissors. He squishes the newly cut end on top of the rest of the bandage snaked around Vladimir's wrist, securing it in place with a double-hooked, elastic and metal clamp.

"There, done. Stop complaining. There's no compression bandages, so it has to be tight," Matt grumbles, letting go of the finished product. He purses his lips softly, thinking before speaking aloud, "Does it really hurt that much? Do you want painkillers?"

"No," huffs Vladimir; a talented liar, Matt thinks, from the way the criminal's heart barely trips over the untruth.

Matt lets it slide. "Okay," he says, checking he time on his watch. He frowns, figuring he still has a little time until he ought to head back to work. "So," he begins, wanting to tell Vladimir of his plan to patrol tonight, for an hour or two at least. He doesn't get the chance.

 _FOGGY_ , his phone chimes, and proceeds to repeat the name incessantly. _FOGGY, FOGGY._

Matt panics, jumping up from the couch and stumbling past the coffee table. No, not now, he thinks.

 _FOGGY_ , the phone insists.

Matt is seventy percent sure Vladimir is either glaring or staring at the phone, heartbeat picking up its pace slightly and shifting his head to follow the noise.

"Why does your phone do that? Is it telling you the weather?" the criminal snaps, suspicious.

Matt stifles a snort, smothering it with a derisive expression he throws at the sofa-gremlin. "It tells me who's calling," he explains, clicking the button to answer the call.

 _FOGGY_ , the phone confirms.

"Look at screen, idiot," Vladimir argues, waving his non-sprained wrist in an arc to emphasise Matt's idiocy. "What the fuck kind of phone does this?" he aggressively gestures to the offending device.

"Hey, Foggy," the brunet says, ignoring Vladimir's question.

" _Hey_ -," is the attempt at a reply.

"What kind of _glupyy_ -? Hey, I'm still talking to you, _mudak_ ," the Russian barks, causing Matt to cringe, hoping that Foggy didn't hear.

" _Who's that?_ " Foggy asks, crushing all hope, ever, heart rate increasing with intrigue.

"Who's that what?" the vigilante parrots, earning a scoff from Vladimir.

"Why does your phone say names?" the sofa-gremlin demands. And really, Matt should stop calling him that in his head. It's much too- well, he's not quite sure what, but he doesn't like it, not for Vladimir. The sagacious part of his mind longs to explain why, to reiterate how stupid it would be to care in the slightest about someone like Vladimir; the sagacious sector is cut off.

" _I have so many questions. It'd be easier to talk if you could just answer your friend. Whom I would like to know about, by the way, considering they're in your apartment, and you barely let me in there sometimes. When am I getting a key, anyway? You've lived there for ages_ ," Foggy argues. Matt guesses his friend is still at the office, from the resonant sounds of the street outside and Karen's voice damning the printer.

The brunet lifts the phone away from his ear to speak to Vladimir, "Because it doesn't display them on the screen, okay?"

Vladimir mutters something acrimonious. Matt is now one hundred percent sure – call it intuition – that he's on the receiving end of a glare.

" _Nice. Succinct. Well, I called to say that the ex-partner, a one Trevor Rothschild, has agreed to talk to us on Monday about the settlement with a lawyer from Sharma and Yates_ ," Foggy continues.

"Haven't heard of them," Matt says carefully; the Russian is not finding out any more than is need-to-know about him.

" _We'll research it, don't worry. Elaine said something about 'douche-bags in seersucker'? So, they can't be too scary,_ " Foggy says, causing Matt to chuckle. " _If you're having friends over to tell them that you're alive after the whole 'exploding buildings' thing that's cool, by the way. Or if you're feeling unwell still, and you wanna stay home with your other, mysterious friend?_ "

Guilt tugs at the corners of Matt's mind at his friend's kindness, because Foggy has a tendency to be just the best. But he can't tell Foggy about patrolling, about his senses, or about the other inhabitant of his loft. There's a viable excuse for Vladimir, somewhere, Matt knows; there has to be.

Vladimir isn't a good person. He's committed countless crimes for his own gain, kidnapped that boy and had Claire beaten to catch Matt. If this were a cheesy movie, Vladimir would be the villain with his presence welcomed by dank lighting, goons scrambling to pretend they were working, and ominous music echoing through the tumbledown hallways of the lair. Fisk, well, he wouldn't show up at all; the untraceable evil to end all others, as he did with the Russians.

Matt doesn't think the death of half of the Ranskahov brother duo and turned allegiance makes a difference to the ridiculous imagination in his mind. Vladimir is a career criminal with a villainous milieu, and Matt is really repeating these thoughts here, drilling it into his mind-

"He's not my 'friend', per se. More like, someone I know who's run into trouble and I owe him a favour," the vigilante explains, only lying about the direction of the favour. "I'll go back to work, soon."

" _You can't leave a guest, Matt, where are your New York manners? We've got it covered. Me and Karen will start all the arguments for the case, you get some rest. And be nice, dude, I'm sure he's your friend; you're over-exaggerating the hatred here,_ " Foggy says, flipping through the pages of what sounds like a file.

"It's Thursday, I should go in. We only have today and Friday to prepare for the meeting with Rothschild," Matt says, ready to explain in full why it's better he return to Nelson and Murdock than stay here with-

" _Nice dodge. Points for you. Also, no, if you try to come back, I'm locking the door. Seriously, stay home, get better. See you tomorrow_ ," Foggy proclaims, righteous and happy, and promptly hangs up.

Matt rolls his eyes, pocketing the phone with one hand while the other rubs at his temple, attempting to quell the forming headache. With a sigh, he kicks off his shoes, not bothered to return them to the closet in his bedroom just yet. He flops down onto the armchair by the window, pretending to stare outside.

"I am grateful for you bringing me here," Vladimir says after some time, accent turning the 'here' into a growl that suits the grumpy tone he's using. "I am not grateful for the lying about your life, and your phone and watch. Something is very strange about you, about this. I am telling you truth, and you lie to me."

The lawyer tenses, right arm moving to grip the arm of his chair. _It's not fair for Vladimir to call me a liar_ , he thinks, formulating a response.

"I don't think you get to know whatever you want, I'm not hiding things out of spite. It's, it's easier this way. Besides, this is charity that you're living off, Vladimir. Something I doubt you've ever given anyone," he says, tone remaining just this side of calm.

The Russian seethes audibly, a soft hiss of annoyance escaping his lips. "You don't know any such thing," he mutters.

"I know enough," Matt's voice turns bitter, his tenuous grip on frustration he's been harbouring these past two days slipping away, "the point is, you don't get to demand the truth just because you told me a couple of things to investigate about Fisk." He stands from the armchair, and snatches his jacket from the side of the other one. "This is my life, and the first second it's possible, you're out of it."

"Kill me," Vladimir mocks, as close to a yell as he can seem to manage. "Stop threatening, acting like you think you are saint. You run around in mask, beat people, lie to friends, lie for no reason. You are no saint."

Matt ignores the stabs of truth in the criminal's words, because he knows, _he knows_ he should tell Foggy, and that this whole vigilante thing isn't the best but it's the best he can do-

He can't stay here. Not now. He shrugs on the jacket, plans to walk – not stomp – straight out the door. Matt has one hand on the doorknob, the other grasping his cane he grabbed from the doorway, when he speaks. He doesn't mean to, not really.

"You say you're grateful, but don't act like it. There are worse things than being lied to, and me having saved your life isn't one of them," the lawyer says, opening, closing, and locking the door as fast as he can. He leans back against it, breaths unreasonably heavy, stressed brain telling him to get it over with and leave. Because he's got to, got to go for a walk, or to work, or something. Can't be here right now.

Matt pushes off the door and tears down the stairs. Despite his best efforts to block all sound out, apart from his shoes on the staircase and the beat of his own breath, it's still there.

That other dreaded heartbeat, the heart that supplies the blood necessary for its owner's next words, distorted through walls and floors.

"Saved for what?" sobs the detached voice, and then continues a self-loathing rant in a mixture of Russian and English that grows softer with distance.

And really, that's the golden question.

* * *

Russian:  
Na dannyy moment / На данный момент ~ For the moment  
D'yavol iz adskaya kukhnya / Дьявол из адская кухня ~ Devil of Hell's Kitchen  
komik / комик ~ Comedian  
Oy / Ой ~ Ow/Oh  
glupyy / глупый ~ stupid  
mudak / мудак ~ asshole


	6. Closed Mouths, Open Doors

Vladimir knows he's thinking the same things over and over. Knows, objectively, it's pointless and whiny, in spite of the weight of all the circumstances surrounding those thoughts. He's not surprised that Matt ran off when he brought it up again. Brought up this whirlpool of self-pity and question marks and made a mess of the tenuous alliance between him and Matt.

He wishes it weren't springtime, with its silly companions of humidity and street-weeds and _even more pigeons_. Not that there aren't any back home, but New York is teeming with the flying rats that had to literally be kicked out of the garage on occasion.

Vladimir is not fond of pigeons, and neither were the men who worked for him; always complaining the pigeon shit never left the taxi windows without a fight. Stupid pigeons.

He wishes winter would have lasted longer, the snow persisted and continued falling, instead of sweeping by, here one second and gone the next.

The more pressing matter at hand - rather than the blond's wallowing - is a sudden realisation of just how immobile he is. Despite all the willpower he could muster up if necessary, Vladimir is aware he couldn't follow Matt out of the apartment, even if he wanted to. He considered this, when Matt up and left for the first time yesterday, but thought something like, 'Sure, I could get up if I _needed_ to.' The Russian is now sure that that was the painkillers talking.

Without the pills to dull the subtle agony of a healing gunshot wound, and with only tenuous stitches holding the split flesh in place, Vladimir guesses he wouldn't be able to walk further than a few feet, and crawl a few more. The sutures already strain when he moves to sit up; they'd shred if he tried to drag himself clear of the loft.

Vladimir doesn't like to think of dire situations calling for self-inflicted pain – few people do, he supposes. But it's better than the guilt that permeates any reflections of _what the hell just happened_.

And so Vladimir sits and stews in the clusterfuck of feelings swirling in his chest, a seething mass of gloom that seems intent on ruining any inkling of recovery.

The blond moves to lie down, almost glad to have the enhanced pain as a distraction. The sutures strain from the carelessness of the move, skin taut and inflamed. Its heat is restricted to the wound itself, hidden under bandages and hospital gown. Still, Vladimir can feel the inflammation threatening to extend its painful claws further, unwelcome warmth seeping out.

He huffs in agitation, moving – slower this time – to lie on his uninjured side as opposed to his back. Forced-out breaths ghost over the sofa cushion facing him, slowing to a natural pace as his eyelids flutter shut, and mind flutters away.

Matt leaves Midtown no less discomposed than when he left his apartment. A slight wind tugs at his once-combed hair once on the 59th Street Bridge, cane clicking rhythmically. He listens without intention to the surrounding passersby. Four feet back, two mothers debate taking their toddler son to the local pool later today. Seven feet back and advancing, two speed-walkers converse about the likelihood of rain this Sunday. Thirteen feet back, a young woman is going home from work, listening to a radio station featuring foreign European tunes. Seventeen feet back and trailing, two teens dawdle, hands entwined and hearts giddy.

The river flows as it usually does, wind favouring the sounds of those west of the lawyer rather than the easterly folk further along the bridge or walking west. Matt is an hour from his destination, but figures the walk is a much-needed mental reprieve as much as it is a bit of exercise. The dwindling daylight hours – not that the light is especially helpful – mean he'd better get a cab home, in a bit. As much as he hates the couch cretin in his apartment, leaving Vladimir there for hours isn't the best idea.

Though he cannot and will never see the sun, Matt enjoys the heat breaking through the wafting breeze that lessens as he leaves the bridge and ventures to Queens. Though not a big fan of nature, there's just something about the sun and the weather that makes Matt feel a little more alive.

The criminal's sleep is restless, awaking what feels like every twenty minutes – there is, strangely, no clock visible in Matt's apartment – to the aches of burnt, punctured flesh weakly trying to knit itself back together. Apart from the cauterised skin, there should only be a small scar of where the bullet went in and thus where the doctor cut it out.

Vladimir's memories of that night after the bombings are hazy; he was hauled to the vigilante's apartment, prodded with medical equipment by the failed snitch nurse, and then carted off to some low-key surgery. He supposes that shows Matt's intelligence, or at least his nurse friend's, in that he'd be dead in a hospital otherwise.

Probably the nurse's intelligence. She's not that one that had a tantrum about dishonesty.

Vladimir winces at the headache reflecting induces. The painkillers are out of reach, the sun is intent on barring sleep no matter which way he turns, the leather of the couch squeaks, and he knows he's being so, so petty.

The problem is that Matt's been gone for at least an hour with no sign of return and Vladimir is very much dependent on the American at the moment. Vladimir hopes that Matt went for a stroll to clear his head and is on his way back right now. That hope dwindles each time he wakes up to an empty loft.

It's unsettling to be abandoned, even for a few hours. With no mobility, the blond hopes it'll be a few hours, at most. It's got to be the shock, or trauma, or whatever other word that implies _fucked-up post-incident_ , causing this unease. Maybe it's guilt from a thousand things; maybe it's from driving off the one person willing to help him. Sick with grief or worry, Vladimir feels sick all the same.

Matt finds comfort in being near the church, all the subtle sensations he can sense. The oddly suburban ambiance in a borough with two point six million people on seventy-one square miles, the faint scent of burnt incense from past holy days. He's been sitting on the bench outside for almost an hour, composure returned at least as stable posture and graceful, non-jerky movements.

The church's youth group are migrating inside, as they do every Thursday afternoon. Thirteen youngsters have walked past Matt carrying food, instruments, or school bags. After the introductions, the kids in the church are discussing their upcoming song performance this Sunday. One girl is adamant her interpretive dance is imperative to success. Another boy has been tuning his acoustic guitar with little success since he arrived ten minutes ago. The itch of spring promises summer break for the high schoolers, something pockets of the kids chat about avidly.

Matt may have four proficient senses, but his memory is as faded and patchy as anyone else's'; high school is a forgotten blur of academics preparing for college and friends he lost touch with after graduation. It's college where everything changed, where he met Foggy and Elektra, when he first began the odd act of vigilantism to go with his daylight endeavours.

And now, it's using that degree that took seven years to get to help people. Only, Nelson and Murdock have a total of two clients, his savings go into the rent for his apartment, and his time- the lawyer is sitting on a bench outside of a church, avoiding the criminal occupying his home.

Another youth walks past, face hot with burst blood vessels and white blood cells trying to patch up a scrape, a wafting tang of blood carrying on the wind. She's not quite in tears, but she smells of the saline-like liquid.

Matt starts, on the verge of standing up as muscles tense in worry. But the girl is gone past the fence in seconds, walking into the church. The lawyer's feet kick out of nervousness, a frown overcoming his face as he listens for the girl's conversations. Her anxious heartbeat is easy to follow; the fluttery, hummingbird tick is telltale against the others'.

She's greeted by the youth pastor and several other students. When one soon asks how she came to have such a bruise and scrape on her right cheekbone, she answers after a moment's hesitation.

"Stacked it on the sidewalk on the way over," she lies.

"I did that with my guitar once. She's never been the same," guitar-boy says wistfully. Dance-girl makes a snide remark about the acoustic guitar and the conversation moves on.

Matt is torn. He should get back to Vladimir, to make sure the Russian hasn't brained himself on the apartment's floorboards out of boredom. Or, Matt could stay and rectify what most likely caused the girl's injury after she leaves the youth group.

The lawyer thinks of possible solutions: ignoring Vladimir and helping the girl, delaying helping the girl to go home (return to youth group next week to check in, perhaps), calling home (but he has no landline). His train of thought devolves then through walkie-talkies and the ridiculous notion of a baby monitor.

At this, Matt decides he's of little use to aid a hurting girl with his mind so muddled. He doesn't want to imagine what havoc letting the Devil out on other people - no matter the guilt - could wreak tonight.

He's allowed pride and ire to rush past humility and patience, gear grinding in his mind sending sparks about. Considering the stress and the only relevant people at the time - himself and Vladimir - Matt thought it was fine to leave such an unstable person alone after a disagreement. He doesn't trust that nothing has happened, despite being at work all morning and returning to a still-intact loft.

Matt stands with little energy, stretching out his cane, adjusting his glasses and jacket sleeves. Walking away from the church down the sidewalk, he focuses on searching his jacket's inner pocket for his phone rather than the conversations in the youth group.

Familiar numbers leads to the line for a taxi service and an order of a ride to appear soon on the next street over. He vows to return next week to the youth group and try to help the girl with the suspicious bruise. For now, Matt will go home, make peace, whatever. _Things will go back to some semblance of normal_ , he tells himself, _they have to_. Just because of that one decision doesn't mean everything changes.

A persistent, belligerent though in his mind tells him that surely the information about Owlsley was enough to go off of. He has to tell himself it wasn't; that more knowledge is more power to the cause. The question of this action is the cost.

Matt has an explanation ready by the time the taxi arrives outside his building. He draws on themes of justice, redemption, evil, and using his gifts for good. His mind now wanders with metaphors about light and darkness, what people deserve and the law is itching but unable to give to them. He thought up a point to touch on the subject of protecting families, but that's reserve ammunition in case the rest doesn't quite work.

As he exits the stained backseat that smells of smoke and sweat, he finds himself searching for the heartbeat that's causing him so much mental grief. Its beat brings an instant wave of calm to dull Matt's violent worry.

The unsettled feeling remains, albeit in a subdued state, causing the vigilante to move swiftly towards the foyer entrance. The journey upstairs passes in a blur of reorganising his thoughts, preparing the, 'fighting for the greater good', and 'productive wrath is excusable', and-

Before he knows it, Matt has reached the top floor, walking with strained elegance into the corridor and making a beeline for his door. One hand grabs the set of keys to unlock it while the other grips the shortened cane.

The shifting of the inner workings of the lock distracts Matt, drawing his attention from the heartbeat to the mechanism. The door edging open brings him back; he pockets the keys, runs a hand over his hair, and walks in.

"Vladimir," he announces as soon as the door closes, "I have my reasons for lying about what I normally do, who I am normally am. But, I'm going to tell you about that, and about why I-"

An undignified snuffle interrupts Matt's epic speech, followed by the ruffling sounds of the Russian in question rolling over on the sofa.

"… Didn't realise you were asleep," Matt says in a huff, dumping his keys in the bowl where they reside on the side table in the hallway. A check of his watch tells Matt it's almost six in the evening; the sun must be sinking low, light leaving Manhattan for other places.

The lawyer sighs, taking the opportunity of almost-silence - of peace - to abandon his cane on the hall table and shed his jacket. Quiet footfalls trail to the windows, checking they're secure; right hand ghosting over the latches while his senses check the health of Vladimir.

Breathes fall almost as they should, injuries preventing calmer breathing. Heart unaffected, if working a little faster than it would without the wounds. Matt doesn't know what Vladimir's normal resting heart rate is, having met after a building exploded and receiving no loss of adrenalin until the end of the night. The lawyer doesn't like to recall the sinking feeling that overcame him when that heartbeat stopped.

He moves on, focusing on the distribution of heat in the criminal's body. Apart from the concentration by where the bullet once was, it's fine. There's no tang of blood in the air, no scent of pulled stitches or grazed skin.

From what Matt can tell, Vladimir is fine. Matt mentally berates himself for worrying as he abandons the windows, walking to the bathroom. Nudges the door open, goes in, and closes the door but leaves a three-inch gap between it and the doorframe; it's easier to sense the rest of the loft that way.

The lawyer removes and folds his clothes, wincing at the soreness of his bruised back and hips from the warehouse fall. He imagines the darkening colours of the pools of blood, red giving way to purplish blue that will fade to yellow in the coming days.

Matt lays the clothing on the vanity, glasses nearby, and shoes on the floor. He's never liked drowning out the world with music - heat and scent pervading blocking only his ears - but he imagines melodies would enhance the ambiance of his home at the moment.

Noise against the heavy pitter-patter of water drops as they fall from the shower head, icy cold reluctantly giving way to warmth. Instead of crisp piano notes or strums of an acoustic guitar, the wails of the city as it lives are the only background music for Matt. Those, and the pulsation of the damned heart insisting blood move around its owner's body, nestled in the centre of Matt's home.

Stepping under the spray and securing the glass door behind him, the vigilante does his best to block out that noise. Turns his attention to the falling water, the flow of it through the building's system, anything else.

It works, mostly; Matt likens the avoidance to meditation. The water is therapeutic for the bruises, causing some of the tension in his muscles to seep away.

Vladimir doesn't wake while Matt is in the shower, nor when he exits and goes to his bedroom. The lawyer doesn't put his glasses back on. He abandons the suit for sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, both dark in colour, if memory serves. Despite numbering his few suits and similar attire, Matt didn't bother with more casual clothes.

Once redressed, he lingers by the chest of drawers, considering. The hospital gown is growing old, fast; Matt supposes he can sacrifice an older set of clothes to the less fortunate wretch on his sofa. Rifling through the drawers of the dresser once more, Matt locates a more threadbare pair of sweatpants and a pyjama-use-only t-shirt. Perfect.

 _He should probably have a shower before new clothes_ , Matt thinks. But then, Dr Jen recommended sponge baths to prevent the healing wound from getting wet. The explosions happened on Monday night, it's now Thursday… unfortunately, such a bath will be necessary.

Having never given a sponge bath before - one of the recommended skills for cleaning is probably sight, after all - Matt leaves the fresh clothes folded on top of the dresser and wanders off to find his computer.

He'll go shopping on the weekend with Foggy, if the other lawyer can; for all his powers, Matt is still blind, and can't tell colours or price tag markings apart. Grocery shopping he can handle, with the help of a worker if things get confusing, but the occasional clothes-shopping nightmaretrip is more tolerable with a friend.

Matt listens to his own footfalls against the timber as he pads to the kitchen counter where he'd left the computer and its braille display. He's halfway there when the heartbeat spikes, followed by a muffled shriek.

"Matt!" Vladimir exclaims, voice hoarse from sleep. " _Ty menya pugay_ ," he says, shuffling to rid himself of the quilt with as little stress on the bandages as possible. He goes on to mutter something about shadows and words that could be summarised by 'skulking'.

The lawyer is too caught up chuckling to listen, rolling his eyes. He takes a seat where he often does now, perched in an uncomfortable armchair, though with less elegance than usual. He revels in this small, fleeting happiness, thoughts of a plan of explanation flitting away.

"How long you standing there? You watching me sleep?" Vladimir asks, tone joking rather than accusatory. Matt imagines it looks like a funny scene for Vladimir; he's awoken to Matt back in the apartment, dressed in pyjamas and smiling as if nothing happened hours ago.

"No," the lawyer says shortly, smile fading. "We're going to have a talk."

"Food first?" Vladimir asks hopefully.

"Talk first," Matt says, settling into the chair as best he can. Foggy always bemoans the colour of the set, as well as the comfort (or lack thereof).

The Russian huffs. "Is serious talk?" he mutters.

"Yes. And don't get too excited for dinner; there's not much food in the apartment. I'll go grocery shopping tomorrow," Matt says.

"Fine," Vladimir replies dismissively. Matt can hear and sense as the other man moves to sit up, heat source shifting and heart working harder.

"This is less of a conversation to have, and more of a speech on my part. An explanation of why I do what I do," the lawyer says softly. He pauses to recollect his thoughts on how to begin and skitters his tongue over his lips. Matt knows he has no room to be poetic or dance around details, not with this audience. "I can't see any light, not since I was nine. By all means of the word, I'm blind."

Vladimir cocks his head to the side at this, a heavy breath escaping his nose.

The vigilante pauses, preparing for an argument. For disbelief, for protests of more lies.

Instead, Vladimir nods just enough for Matt to perceive it.

"But the chemical in the accident that made me blind changed the rest of my senses. It made them better, beyond belief. Like a superpower," Matt says, though such a label puts a sour taste in his mouth. He may fight crime, but the amount of bruises he gets would give an outsider viewer pause as to whether he's the real winner here. "I can hear up to a few blocks away, if I concentrate. And even when I don't, I can hear the whole building. Feel heat through my skin from across the room. Smell the perfume of a woman walking down the street outside.

"Ever since I went blind, I've been hearing the worst this city has to offer; muggings, assaults, murders, rapes. I wanted to protect this city, the people, so badly. But I kept that to myself, because of my - because it wasn't right. The law is there to protect people, even if it's not enough sometimes.

"This city is my home; I wanted to help, so much, it was driving me mad. One day, a few years ago, it got too much. There was a man - a terrible man - and I could hear his young daughter cry every time he went to her at nighttime, when he'd touch her in secret. I called the police, but the girl's mom didn't believe it. So I found him and I beat him," Matt says in a rush, now out of breath. He takes air in through his nose, settling the memories that arise.

He remembers that night well; remembers landing each hit onto the man's face. Felt the jaw when it cracked away from its left socket, skin burst when struck over and over. Over and over, till the man's blood soaked the gravel in the trainyard under him. Till the smoke-damaged heart beat weakly enough that Matt knew the man wouldn't get up.

The lawyer takes some time to recall the gore; too much time.

"To death?" Vladimir asks, tone neutral.

"No," Matt replies, shaking his head. "A man named Stick taught me to fight after I went blind. He said I was 'soft', too," he says without meaning to, caught in reminiscence. "I kept practicing after he left. And now, I try to protect this city, as best I can."

Matt feels like that's the end of his speech, but doesn't know how to say that.

Vladimir sighs, shifting his position on the sofa so he sits straighter. "Which city?" he asks.

The lawyer blinks back intelligently, comprehending the response. "This city," he says.

"Ah. Right. You did not say this enough times." And that's- Vladimir has got to be smiling right now. Matt thinks back on what he said as well as what he planned on saying and yeah, he might say 'this city' more often than not.

The silence of shared smiles stretches on, long enough for them to fade naturally. _This has gone over much smoother than I thought it would_ , Matt thinks. Just to check, he adds, "Do you have any questions?"

Vladimir hums, affirmative. "You are truly blind?" he asks.

"Truly," Matt says with a nod.

"You fight so strong. But, you cannot see? _Neimovernyy_ ," Vladimir says. Despite not knowing the word, Matt can hear the awe in the other man's voice; the reverence.

And no, that is absolutely not a blush of heat gracing Matt's face. Not at all. Okay, maybe a little, but he turns his away to hide it before it can be seen. The lawyer kicks his feet out from where his heels touched the chair, to instead lay under the small table.

"I knew something was strange. Your phone, no clock, asking about colour of under the bandages, and you do not - no eye contact. Yes?" Vladimir says, gesturing from his face and waving away.

Matt nods in lieu of words.

"I am glad you told me this, Matt. But, I did not ask why you run around at night, punching people. I asked you why you lie," the Russian says.

Matt frowns, though he really wants to cover his face in his hands. He thought up a whole spiel about vigilantism and his abilities, but that wasn't the real issue. Too focused on what he'd tell the other people in his life if he revealed his moonlighting, Matt ignored the other thing he did. The one that's still not easy to explain.

He decides to wing it.

"I lied because it was easier. It's easier to hide than to trust," he says, grip on the arm of the chair tightening.

"And you trust me now?" Vladimir asks, sceptical. The answer is, _No, that's why I came back here instead of helping someone_ , but it's not the only answer.

"I've changed my mind; it's easier to tell the truth," Matt says with a light shrug. "And I think there'll have to be trust for this to work. For you to stay."

Vladimir seems to nod, but it's hard to tell. "Okay," he says. And okay it is.

* * *

Russian:  
Ty menya pugay / Ты меня пугай ~ You scared me  
Neimovernyy / Неимоверный ~ Incredible


	7. The Imp of the Perverse

They ate dinner in silence. Vladimir made use of the utensils by himself (his right wrist may be sprained, but the left one is just fine) to devour the once-frozen bread and microwave pasta/cheese concoction. Matt chuckled at Vladimir's odd comments about the food; the slimy texture and plastic taste, as well as the shape of the tiny pasta pieces.

"It's mac 'n' cheese," Matt said, as if that did anything other than give a name to the dairy-and-wheat slime.

The blond kept his concentration restricted to the food. This helped the effectiveness of the fork and restrained Vladimir from giving too much attention to Matt's eyes.

In Vladimir's defense, this is the first time he's seen them devoid of glasses, the rich brown irises and the eyelids move calmly as Matt's gaze traversed the room.

 _Blind gaze_ , Vladimir reminds himself. Although it seemed ridiculous at first, it's begun to make sense. All the small things Vladimir had noticed these past days with Matt had an explanation, as odd as it may be. The Russian now marvels at the fact that Matt has such powers and uses them with such skill.

It had been with such wonder that as soon as dinner was over and the painkillers taken, Vladimir fell asleep still sitting up. He's awoken just now to the click-clack of computer keys and wail of sirens somewhere outside.

The sun has truly set now, disappeared behind skyscrapers. The apartment is bathed in soft purple light from the billboard next door, advertising - well, Vladimir's not quite sure, but it has a cartoon car and a bag of apples, or something.

The blond idly flexes his fingers on both hands, testing the comfortable limits of the tendons until he moves his right wrist too much. A string of pain sparks there even more as Vladimir gingerly gauges the extent of painless (or not entirely painful) movement.

He hisses when a certain twist strains the injury, left hand moving to cradle the opposite wrist. Realising Matt must have heard the sound, Vladimir cranes his neck to look around to the source of the typing noise. The vigilante is sitting at the small table before the kitchen, earbuds in and fingers reading the device just visible behind the computer.

Matt frowns at the computer, somewhere between confused and frazzled. He didn't notice at all; he doesn't even seem to know the other man is awake.

The corners of Vladimir's lips twitch up into an impish smile as his eyes find one of the water bottles on the coffee table to be empty. It only takes a few seconds of reaching, fumbling, twisting, and focus, before the plastic container takes flight. It sails through the air from Vladimir's left hand to hit Matt squarely on the forehead, albeit with little force.

The brunet blinks in shock, hands rushing to remove the earbuds. "Is- is something wrong?"

"I thought you could sense the 'world around you'," Vladimir says, tone snide. "Guess not."

" _I can_. I just get distracted- I was reading, and listening," Matt says defensively. "Why did you throw a water bottle at me?"

Vladimir cocks his head to the side instead of shrugging, since that's much too painful at the moment to be worth it. Especially since Matt can't actually _see_ him shrugging.

"Test. You failed," the Russian says, insouciant.

"This time," Matt mutters bitterly, gathering up his earphones to set them by the Braille-whatever he uses to read from the computer before snapping the laptop lid shut.

Vladimir's smile intensifies at this, thinking that there might indeed be a next time in the ensuing, inescapable boredom of the night-time. He turns away from Matt, finding it to be less of a strain on his back if he doesn't twist to look.

"Do you want to know what I was reading about?" the brunet asks with a hint of a holier-than-thou tone.

"Not really," Vladimir says, blinking heavily and taking a deep, long-suffering breath.

"Sponge baths. You need a sponge bath; I've never given a sponge bath, ergo, reading. Listening," Matt says, eloquence meter apparently depleted for the time being. Vladimir decides the vigilante must feel delicate without the mask, the empty water bottle having obviously damaged something important.

"Okay. Now?" the blond ponders airily.

"I'm going to move a chair to the bathroom vanity, so we're near the sink. So, in a minute," Matt says, scraping the chair legs against the ground slightly as he takes it from the table behind the couch. He carries it with ease through the apartment, slides the bathroom door open with his free hand, and unceremoniously dumps the chair inside. A slight scraping implies he wasn't quite happy with the haphazard landing.

Matt mills around for another couple minutes, gathering towels and washcloths from the living room wardrobe, and mumbles something scathing about the sink.

"Ready?" he calls from the bathroom.

"I cannot walk over there, if that is what you're expecting," Vladimir says. "Why did you not get the chair and drag me to there?"

"I doubt you'd like the vibrations very much from the chair legs against the ground," Matt says, emerging from the bathroom with his sleeves rolled up. "Just, try to walk. I'll hold you up."

"I might fall asleep," Vladimir mumbles as he shakily stands, hand reaching out for Matt's shoulder as soon as it's in range. They stumble across the apartment with harsh breaths and muttered grievances, but make it there no worse off. Except for the sparking pain of the gunshot wound, which is really- it's just- making Vladimir's eyelids really heavy…

Matt knows it's the middle of the night when he wakes, knows Vladimir is messing with his admittedly subpar sleep schedule. The sound of a heartbeat straining against the pain the central nervous system is relaying to the body's brain.

The vigilante sighs deeply, wishing he could stay cocooned in the silk of his bed instead of getting up. He could try to go back to sleep, but the pained huffs of breath from his living room are worse than the car alarm three blocks away.

Matt shuffles out of the confines of his bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor with a muffled tap. He rubs at his eyes with one hand, clearing away the beginnings of rheum there, while his other hand scratches at his ribs through his pyjama shirt. He know it's more comfortable than the old t-shirt and seldom-used sweatpants he sacrificed to Vladimir after the sponge bath earlier; so, he can probably deal with getting up in the middle of the night.

"What's wrong?" he says through a soft yawn, pace slowing to a stop by the armchair, his feet absentmindedly pawing at the rug underfoot.

"Pain," Vladimir says, writhing on the sofa. The quilt is kicked into a ball by his feet and the thin t-shirt is pushed up to his ribs, but there's heat pouring off the wound nonetheless.

"It's probably inflamed," Matt says, thinking of the ice packs, "forgot to put them in the freezer…"

"It feels like it," Vladimir says, quiet enough that a normal person might not hear.

He goes to the freezer anyway, sniffing out the obligatory bag of peas. Finds the bag just as Vladimir hisses in pain again, hand ghosting around the bandage as if that'll help. Matt returns with the freezing vegetables, bagged and wrapped in a thin dish towel, as well as two pills.

"Here," Matt says, kneeling by the sofa, "hold it to the bandage, but make sure it doesn't get wet."

The criminal nods once, left hand scrabbling for the bag, short nails brushing the fabric of the dish towel as he takes out some of the pain on the innocent bag of peas.

"And the painkillers," Matt adds, turning away to grab a half-full bottle of water from the table to go with the pills. Vladimir holds out his right palm for the tablets first, throwing them into his mouth after they fall into his hand. He takes the water, right hand shaking with the effort placed upon his wrist to hold the bottle still.

The bag of peas doesn't sit quite right nestled between Vladimir's side and the couch and so must be held in place by the Russian's left hand reaching across his body. The bag keeps slipping from the fatigue Matt is sure the other man is feeling, from bleary blinks and drawn-out breaths.

After taking the bottle back and placing it on the table, Matt kneels on the rug, close to the sofa. He raises his left shoulder so his arm can reach across Vladimir's abdomen, hand settling on the cloth-covered frozen veggies. There's enough room on the bag so that he can hold the side of it, avoiding Vladimir's hand.

"Does that feel better?" the lawyer asks.

"A little," Vladimir says, his breaths settling slightly as he draws his hand away from the bag. "Thank you; was not necessary."

"It was; you don't want to trigger a fever," Matt says, moving to sit down on the rug instead of kneeling, one leg crossed and the other bent so the knee is against the sofa.

"How did you know it was sore?" Vladimir asks. His voice is quiet, hushed, but Matt knows the criminal isn't speaking to himself.

"I can sense heat, through the air. And you were breathing differently, from the pain," Matt explains, free hand coming up to rub at his eyes again.

"Smart," Vladimir says, which is likely the first _nice thing_ he's said to Matt; it feels odd.

They reside there for a time, one fighting sleep and the other unable to reach it. Vladimir fidgets with his left hand, cracking a knuckle or two. After making a fist and releasing it, several times, he speaks.

"Things have changed," Vladimir says, voice soft with fatigue.

Matt huffs air through his nose in an almost-laugh. He nods instead of saying something condescending, waiting for Vladimir to continue. He has no idea where the other man is going with this.

"I used to know what I wanted, if we were in charge. If owning the world," Vladimir says. Matt imagines that the Russian's eyes narrow at the hyperbole.

"Were the world mine?" Matt teases, words from some once-read, now-forgotten play.

"Yes," Vladimir says, dismissive of the re-wording. "I wanted power, recognition, wealth. Now, I don't know."

Matt thinks he understands. He never had a sibling himself, but Vladimir and Anatoly must have been close if they ran their own mafia together, if Vladimir tried to kill Matt for what Fisk had done to his brother… Vladimir doesn't, can't, have that duality anymore. Can't go back to running a mob, either; if Matt can help it.

"What about when you were young?" the vigilante asks. He thinks a funny thing, to consider someone so bitter ever being a child. But then, said bitter-one is lain on a sofa, ill and mumbling, so maybe it's not so hard to imagine Vladimir in a similar situation as a child. Minus the bullet wound, probably.

"When I was young? I was different," Vladimir says wistfully, accent heavier than usual. "Naïve. Was good at school, when I went. Anatoly was smarter, had more focus. But, I was interested in _inzhiniring_ , yes?"

"Engineering? With machines?" Matt asks, intrigued.

" _Da_. Read books, real and not real, about science and this. But there was not enough money for university. Other things wrong, too. There is a thought, a moment, where I could still try, keep going with that. But, instead, I joined with the _mafiya_. Worked my way to the top, managed business with my brother. You know enough of the remainder," Vladimir says with an air of finality, but not regret.

But Matt is interested, even in his tired state, and so asks, "What about besides work? Besides money?"

Vladimir laughs softly, and Matt can almost feel the tension drain from the air with the noise. "What does anyone want besides money and work? Human things, Matt. Am still human," the criminal says, as if daring Matt to suggest otherwise.

"Peace? Helping others? I don't see you doing that," Matt argues, shifting his grip on the bag of peas. They're quickly losing their iciness, becoming mushier, but the dish towel is only a little wet. It should be fine.

"You don't see at all," Vladimir says.

Matt's too tired to laugh. "You know what I mean," he says, tone light.

Vladimir sighs, head lolling to the side."I was always too angry for peace," he says. Matt can feel the other man's gaze upon him.

"Angry at what?" he says, determined not to squirm under scrutiny, "Wrath is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury." He recalls the line once said in church, when someone was discussing the seven deadly sins. "There's a choice to be angry."

"There was a lot to be angry at; less to love," Vladimir says. Matt can practically _hear_ the frown before Vladimir looks away. The Russian opts to twiddle thumbs rather than continue.

"I guess some things haven't changed, then," Matt says, after it's clear he has to be the one to break the silence. Or, the incessant rattling of a drunk downstairs neighbour struggling with her keys. Vladimir hums his agreement, though it's weak.

"What about you? What did you want, when you were young?" he says. Matt isn't startled by the question, exactly, but his mind switches to auto-pilot and his grip on the dish towel tightens regardless.

"My dad was a boxer," Matt says, quiet and reverent as memories flood his mind, "He fought so hard, never gave up – I just – I wanted to hear him win."

Of course, it's not exactly in the line of what he'd asked Vladimir about, or what the Russian has answered. Matt cringes about his impulsiveness, recollecting his thoughts. Vladimir's breaths are quieter now, less pained; Matt takes the bag of peas off to place on the table. With his right hand, since it's not affected by the cold of the bag, he checks over the bandaging. It's dry but chilly, reassuring Matt that the time of conversation is up. If he leaves, there's no more need to fill the silence. He tells himself that's why he continued the discussion, putting the previous interest down to boredom, not letting the new information rattle around in his head.

"I'd better go back to sleep," Matt says. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Vladimir says, just this side of snappish. "Feels better. Thanks," he says, tone harsh despite the kind words. Matt ignores this, tired limbs pushing off of the rug. He puts the peas, minus dish towel, back in the freezer, along with the ice packs.

"Goodnight," Matt mutters, traipsing back to his room, hands twisting to warm up the cold one. Once in bed and almost asleep again, Matt thinks he hears an answering 'Goodnight', but it's more of a whisper of breath than anything. Matt sighs contentedly, falling asleep in a matter of minutes.

Vladimir wakes to the bright morning light shining through the windows, shirt still halfway up his chest and quilt at his feet. He snorts in protest of the sunlight, blinking past the sleep in his eyes.

"Finally," he hears Matt mutter, somewhere close. Vladimir flinches, attempting to sit up straight much too fast. He triggers a spark of pain from the no-longer-inflamed wound and a smarting headache, but perseveres through it.

Vladimir almost wants to say sorry for snapping. Almost. To be fair, Matt is not the one who had a bullet lodged in his side, cauterised by a road flare. So, Matt can deal with being snapped at.

"Good morning also," Vladimir sneers as best he can while his head spins.

"Antibiotic is on the coffee table," Matt says from where he's sat at the table behind the couch. Vladimir reaches to grab the first pill of the day and chases it down with a swig of water, then dumps the bottle back down. He moves his legs off the couch, kicking at the troublesome quilt when it stalks him, and plants his feet on the rug, each hand beside his hips. The blond pushes up off of the couch, standing on shaky legs, and begins the trek around the sofa. Both hands remain on the sofa, inducing a terrible lean of his body, but hold him steady enough to stay upright. The pants Matt gave him fall just short of Vladimir's ankles, due to the latter being slightly taller, but the aging shirt fits just fine.

Matt makes a surprised noise, rushing to stand up and thus sending his chair skittering back with a scraping sound.

Vladimir's arms begin to shake with the strain and pain as he reaches the end of the couch, but he pushes on. Or, at least he tries. Panic floods his system as he feels the negative effects of straining the human body post-gunshot-wound. Namely, losing his balance and beginning to fall.

He doesn't get the chance to lose more than ten degrees off of being upright before Matt's there, arms wrapping around Vladimir's chest. The Russian's temporarily inferior posture brings the two men to roughly the same height, causing Vladimir's chin to rest on Matt's shoulder. It's almost like a hug, except one arm is resting on the couch and the other wedged between their torsos, and one of them in is minor agony.

Matt shuffles forward, forcing Vladimir to take a couple steps back.

"C'mon," the brunet mutters, leaning to lower Vladimir back to the safety of the sofa. "Not yet. You want help?"

Vladimir shakes his head, but it must be enough for Matt to notice.

"If I get back later, and you've pulled any stitches," Matt says, and although it sounds like a threat, Vladimir chuckles. If he pulls any stitches, Matt could return to the loft with a corpse on the floor. Vladimir decides he'll try to avoid inconveniencing Matt like that.

"Why are you up early?" the blond asks with a frown.

"Work," Matt answers, walking back around to the table to finish his breakfast. "I have to make sure you get your antibiotics before food, and the painkillers and other one with food, and, you know, that you haven't died overnight."

"Happy Friday," Vladimir laughs, "no escape to work on the weekend, yes?"

"I plan to get you some of your own clothes and restock on food this weekend, but otherwise, yes. No work," the American says, chair noisily moving back into place. Vladimir doesn't understand how Matt can stand the sound with such sensitive hearing, but then, he's not sure he understands much of Matt in general.

The bandage was changed last night, stitches still in place. Vladimir is glad to be in normal clothes, as opposed to a bloodied bullet-proof vest or a hospital gown not obtained from a real hospital.

Vladimir has mixed feelings about his midnight chat with the vigilante. It didn't exactly pain him to drudge up the memories of times past, but there was something unfulfilling about it when he shared information and Matt remained closed-off. Vladimir has felt his anger over it wash away with the rays of the morning light, the phantom touch of Matt's hand on his wound in the middle of the night-

The blond screws his eyes shut, determined for it dull the pain, to clear his cloudy mind. To make sense of anything that's happening to him.

Matt, in true good samaritan spirit, ditches Vladimir earlier than necessary. When the purpose is going to church, Matt reasons it's passable. He left the Russian on the edge of sleeping, pills taken, hunger diminished, and mood sour. As usual.

The lawyer might be two days and a few hours early for Sunday mass, but receives his audience with a priest nonetheless. Despite not possessing four chemically-enhanced senses, Father Lantom can almost always seem to tell when Matt is around. Or, he uses the one sense Matt lacks, and looks through a church window to see Matt loitering outside the fence.

Matt sits at the bench, cane folded and glasses on, though he's not sure of his fashion taste considering how little care he put into his suit today. The label refers to some dark grey outfit that probably doesn't match the socks he chose that are probably white.

"Good morning, Matthew," Father Lantom says, taking a seat on the bench.

Matt smiles at the pleasantness of the greeting; astronomical, in comparison to the other he received earlier. "Good morning, Father," he says.

"Something's wrong," the priest answers, without doubt.

"I wanted to ask about something," Matt explains, curling his toes within his shoes. "I was talking to a, a friend, about why he's done some of the bad things he has. How it began, how he went down that road. He described a moment of indecision, of a choice between good and bad. I wanted to know how there can be such a thing, to have that- to make that choice."

"You know I'm no psychologist," Lantom sighs, leaning back against the timber of the bench. After a moment of consideration - and Matt's tense breaths - he speaks again. "There's a metaphor from literature, called the 'imp of the perverse'. It likens what you're describing to that there's a demon in a reasonable person's head, urging them to do the wrong thing for no reason at all, except that they can."

Matt nods his assent, but not any understanding.

"It's that people have the power, in any moment, to do what is right, by themselves and by others, or to create chaos. For example, you could get up, go to a set of traffic lights, and wait for the walking signal. Or, you could run out into traffic.

"People feel they have such power, to almost 'play God'. This isn't usually a thing of greed, or pride. Just a feeling of choice. Most of the time, we make the choices that are 'right', the ones we truly want to make," he says, "and sometimes, like with your friend, we make the wrong choice. And that hurts others, hurts ourselves."

"And once you stray down some paths," Matt reasons, cocking his head to the side in thought, "it's almost impossible to turn back." He imagines it wouldn't be easy to up-and-leave any mafia, with enemies made and protection lost, scorned friends and the call of the streets still beckoning.

"Indeed. It takes a lot of determination," the priest adds, clasping his hands together. He turns his head to look from the street to Matt. "But there's something else?"

The lawyer sighs. "My friend also said he's been 'too angry for peace'. So I told him, 'wrath is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury'."

Father Lantom laughs softly, and says, "A kind phrasing. You have to remember, it's difficult for some people to receive or show love of any kind. And, if your friend is not understanding you, as I think you're trying to say, you have a problem of communication. You're eloquent, Matthew, well-spoken.

"But I believe that for your words to have the desired effect, you have to say what you mean. Speak truths instead of dancing around them," Father Lantom concludes, "do you think this is true?"

Matt blinks slowly, attempting to shut out the noise of traffic, the yells of children in a nearby playground, the man in an apartment building berating his maid.

"Yes," Matt says upon expelling his held breath, "I understand."

"That's good. Now, when you see your friend again, you have to do your best to help him understand," the priest says.

"I'd better get to work," the vigilante says, rising from the park bench with a smile and a nod, "thank you, Father."

"You're welcome, Matthew," Father Lantom says, surely smiling back.

Matt turns away after a moment, clicking the pieces of his cane back into place, wondering where he should go to catch a taxi back to Midtown. He supposes this has to do with being honest; that although he's decided to speak truths, he might have been avoiding speaking at all so he doesn't divulge anything. This avoidance, of course, isn't worth his time, considering this whole sofa-cretin debacle is probably going to be the death of Matt, regardless. Moving from metaphors to idioms, the vigilante considers the phrase, ' _in for a penny, in for a pound_ ', and decides to just get the first taxi he can.

* * *

I completely forgot to upload this chapter I am _so sorry_.

Russian:  
inzhiniring / инжиниринг ~ engineering  
Da / Да ~ Yes  
mafiya / мафия ~ mafia  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	8. Fight Off the Gloom

{A/N: w/o italics bc to replace a single word to correct a translation, it has to be a whole new document and won't take html so…}

"So, your friend, who yelled over the phone, is he still at your place?" Foggy asks, shuffling papers into a manila folder.

Matt, attempting to take a swig from a water bottle, performs an impressive half-spit-take, half-choke. He ends up gasping like a fish out of the sea, taking deep breaths to dispel the water.

The vigilante shakes his head. "Just visiting. Passing through," Matt says, clearing his throat.

"You okay there, buddy?" Foggy asks, filing away the folder and raising a hand, as if considering hitting Matt on the back. Matt hopes he doesn't, considering he can still feel the contusions there from Monday night when the bombs went off.

"Fine, sorry. I forgot that my friend," Matt, as usual, stumbles over the word, though he maintains it's because it's a far-fetched lie, "yelled over the phone. Anyway, this weekend; tomorrow, could we go shopping? Just for groceries, and re-stocking on clothes. If you're free, it's easier than asking store clerks." He frowns softly, eyebrows raised in what's meant to be a hopeful expression.

"Yeah, absolutely. Tomorrow's fine," Foggy says, certainly smiling, "did you wanna meet somewhere, or catch a taxi to mine, or?"

"I'll go to your apartment. Is ten okay?"

"See you then, Matty. Catch you as the new day breaks. Until- okay, I'm going to stop," Foggy says. "Hey, Karen? Could you call if you find anything?"

The paralegal is taking home research over the Tully case, reading that she insists she can do herself. She sweeps into Foggy's office, smelling of the banana bread she had for lunch.

"I would," she says, "if I had your phone numbers." She hovers in the doorway expectantly, nails tapping on the wall idly.

"Right, of course, silly me. Good idea," Foggy rambles, fishing around his pockets for his mobile. He swaps the phones with Karen, and though his fingers don't shake as he taps in the number, Matt can hear his friend's heartbeat go a little wild.

Matt chuckles silently, turning his head away to hide the smile from his bagel-scented best friend. After a minute, Karen swaps the phones back, serene. The vigilante interrupts the probable awkward staring with a soft cough.

"Lunchtime?" he suggests.

"Yes, please," Foggy whines. "Matt, did you want to go to-?"

"I made lunch this morning," Matt lies, "sorry."

Karen shifts her weight from foot to foot. "That's fine," she waves a hand. "See you after lunch."

"Yeah, that's cool," Foggy says; it's not a lie, but it's not said with ease, either. "We'll catch up this weekend, anyway. See you soon."

When Matt comes home at midday, everything is fine. Lunch itself is cheese sandwiches, which is the final straw; Matt has got to go grocery shopping as soon as possible. But overall, it's an uneventful matter, over within half an hour.

At dusk, however, something is wrong. The regular heartbeat he's grown used to homing in on is still there, but the air has changed. As Matt opens the apartment door with purposefully steady hands weighed down by grocery bags, it hits him.

The scent of blood permeates the air, both white and red cells attempting to fix an opened wound. Matt's familiar with it from the many beatings as the Man in the Mask, but those times, the smell was expected. He could feel the pain firing through his body, or the muffled sounds of another person being struck.

Absentmindedly, he closes the door, ears straining to focus on the heartbeat. Despite whatever wounds Vladimir has sustained, the heartbeat is still there, unmarred by what has occurred.

The lawyer leaves his workbag and keys on the side table, then walks to the kitchen to deposit the four plastic bags. His now-free hands paw at the healing bruises on his sides. Double-checking the blood isn't his. It's not, of course.

"Matt," croaks the couch-gremlin. "Was wondering when you'd get home," he says, accent running rampant. Something sparks through Matt's chest at the words, but he can't pinpoint why.

"You're hurt," Matt says, taking off his glasses to rest by the house keys.

Vladimir hums in agreement, tone wavering and uncertain. "On accident," he explains, "tried to walk on my own. I fell over, and twisted… tore the stitches, I think. Don't know. Can you turn on the lights? It's getting dark."

Matt breathes a sigh of relief that there's been no attack, no breach of security, and crosses the floor to where Vladimir lies on his back. He didn't get very far, having tumbled to earth just past the edge of the lounge area's rug. Or, tumbled to the floor of a top-level apartment complex.

"Okay, well, I think it's better if you stay where you are. So you don't pull anymore stitches," Matt reasons, flicking the main room's seldom-used light switch.

"Yes, I figured that out already," Vladimir says with a melodramatic huff, head lolling to the side.

The vigilante rolls his eyes; the extra movement of trying to return to the couch explains the stitch-destroying twist, at least.

"I'll go get the suture kit and stitch you back up," he says, balling up a fist to rub at his right eye as he wanders away. "And then help you back to the couch, and then make dinner…" He sheds his jacket and throws it into the laundry hamper, toes off his shoes, and decides they can stay in the bathroom. He blanks on where the first aid kit is now before remembering it lives in the vanity cupboard.

After getting the kit, and the extra stitches from Dr Jen, Matt returns to sit on the rug on the side of the wound, legs crossed. He sets out the materials beside the Russian and begins sorting through the sutures and needles.

"So, what made you think you could prance around, all of a sudden?" Matt asks, twirling a mattress needle between his fingers, wondering why it's in with the medical kit.

"Hm? I wanted to walk, to move around. Sit by the window, look outside," Vladimir mumbles.

"You can see outside from the couch," Matt says, dismissive, having found the right needle, and sets it down by the kit. He lays out the new bandage and opens the packet of sutures.

"I can see the giant screen, and now I can see the sun has set. Nothing else," Vladimir says, muscles tensing as Matt rucks up his borrowed shirt over the wound.

The lawyer's fingertips meet small spots of congealed blood through the bandage's fabric. He sighs, peeling away the covering and folding it so no blood meets the floor, ready to be thrown away later. The gunshot wound had healed up – scarred up – on the outside when Matt cauterised it four days ago, but the cut to remove the bullet and the flesh the initial impact ruined are still trying to recover. What were once neat, even stitches over the incision, several inches across, are now mangled in the middle and half scabbed-over.

Matt skitters his right hand delicately over the line of dissolving string, short nails finding a separated stitch with ease. As he finds the wound reopening and runs a fingertip along it, Vladimir's heart rate elevates and legs wriggle.

"You pulled the stitches, you deal with them being re-stitched," Matt says, unsympathetic. He prepares the first new suture, but the needle barely pricks Vladimir's skin before protest.

Vladimir sighs. "I appreciate your help, Matt. And I know you can fight, and such, but, for this. I doubt you are… this is more tóchnyy. Yes?"

"Touchy?" Matt asks, taking the needle away with a bewildered smirk.

"No. It needs… needs to be exact. Careful," the criminal's breathing eases audibly at the needle's retreat.

"I'm careful," Matt says, incredulous. They've had this argument before, back when Vladimir thought he could see.

"Mhm," the hum is disbelieving.

"I changed the bandages with no problems, and I've patched myself up for years. It's fine," Matt says with a sense of finality. The needle's return is interrupted by whirring clicks, followed by distant cries of alarm. "What's that?"

"Lights went off," Vladimir says, calm now he thinks he's escaped Matt's apparently substandard medical skills, "giant screen, too."

The vigilante cycles through the appliances in the apartment; the fridge isn't running, and no electricity hums through the walls. Downstairs and across the hall, people complain to their roommates about the power blackout. It's limited to this building and the next one or two; no reason to worry. Matt sighs, going back to push the needle-

"Hey! What are you doing? The lights went off, something is wrong," Vladimir says, shuffling to get an elbow as leverage to sit halfway up and wriggle out of the needle's reach.

"And? I don't need the light. Get back here, stop being childish," Matt argues, left hand finding the other man's kneecap and tugging.

"But I cannot see what you're doing, where you stitch," Vladimir cringes at the strain the movement puts on the wound, but breathes a sigh of relief when Matt puts the needle back in the kit. "Go and get a torch."

"I don't have a torch," Matt says, ignoring the affronted huff of response. "I'm blind, Vladimir, I don't need a torch."

"No stitches. It's too dark, and I do trust you to not lie, but not to use needle and thread. Get someone else to do it."

Matt doesn't think that the half-dead guy sprawled on the floor is in any position to be making stupid demands, but goes along with it. "Someone-? Okay, I'll get my phone, and you can ask Claire to come here and fix the stitches you wrecked," he says, fishing the burner phone from his pocket and brandishing it.

Vladimir physically recoils from the mobile, shuffling away on his elbows. "No, you call the nurse," he says.

Matt pauses, levelling the criminal with a patient frown. "Really. You want me to call Claire to patch you up, instead of doing it myself, because it's a little dark," he says, deadpan.

"When you say it like that," Vladimir mutters, posture faltering to relax.

"Fine," the lawyer concedes, "the power's out so, naturally, there's children screaming two floors below, I'm tired, and Claire's an expert." He navigates the phone to one of the few numbers programmed into it and calls.

"'Lo? Is something wrong?" she picks up, heartbeat steady. The usual hospital noise is replaced with the talkative thrum of regularly scheduled nighttime television.

"I went out last night, got a bit scraped up. Turns out band-aids weren't enough. But you don't have to come over if you're busy," Matt hesitates, not wanting to push his luck, save for something bad happening in the future. He readjusts his posture while waiting for a response.

"Put on speaker," Vladimir whispers harshly. Matt holds up a hand – hoping it to be easily read as shut the hell up – but complies.

Claire sighs loudly. "Well, you **are** interrupting a very gripping TV drama I can't remember the name of," she says, a distinct smile to her tone as she shifts; presumably standing from the sofa. The happiness is gone when she speaks again, "Wait, don't you have a live-in scumbag at the moment?"

Vladimir clears his throat, "Allo, medsestra."

"Yeah, I thought so," Claire says, aside to herself. She sighs again, even more dramatically. "Hey to you too, asshole. Why don't you help out?"

Vladimir pauses, as if expecting Matt to stick up for him. Not happening. Matt nods at him to emphasise this. The Russian scoffs. Matt's sure he's on the receiving end of a glare.

"Power is out," Vladimir says, "can't see, can't stitch."

"What, and you think I can see in the dark? Get a flashlight, geniuses," Claire replies.

Matt speaks again, to stave off Vladimir's indiscriminate grumbling. "Don't have one. It can wait until the power comes back on, it's no big deal."

"No," Claire says after a beat, "that's okay. I'll be over there in ten. I'd do a much better job, anyway." She hangs up without a parting word, leaving Matt and Vladimir in silence. As silent as New York can get, pre-apocalypse. Someone in the building next door is on the phone to his electrical company, complaining. The company worker says it's an issue with a grid connection, and should be fixed after an hour.

A woman is on her phone is despair, asking a friend across the city to check her payment for a new shipment to her boutique. A young child frets over the lack of a nightlight. Matt rises, ambling to the kitchen to put away the groceries – milk, eggs, bread, pasta, and some vegetables – but soon returns to the lounge area.

"So," Matt says upon an exhale, sitting on the floor once again. He moves to lean against the side of the sofa. Bored and lethargic, he asks, "What'd you do today?"

The pain of tearing the stitches was smarting at first. Stabbing, sparking, very regrettable. It's now aching and resonant, better now the bandage is off. Shuffling around on the floor to evade a needle didn't help, but the pain from that is more in muscles and joints than the bullet wound.

Vladimir frowns at the idiot sitting across from him. He disregards the question with a huff, shuffling away on his elbows until his back hits the armchair. After getting close enough, he leans against it, relaxing his tired arms. He lifts his shirt to keep it clear of the wound,

Matt takes an obnoxiously loud breath. "The quilt really does smell like mothballs, doesn't it?"

"It does," Vladimir agrees, observing the vigilante. Matt looks tired, from the slouch of his shoulders to the defeated rise-and-fall of his chest. It's been an eventful week, Vladimir reasons. Considering Matt's hobby of beating people up at night, Vladimir guesses it's been an eventful month or so since he started targeting Fisk's goons.

As he sees Matt's eyes flutter closed, Vladimir decides he won't be annoying and interrupt his rest. Instead, he does the same. Not sleeping, but not truly waking either. Just resting, letting the relative quiet – even he can hear the constant traffic outside – wash over him.

It seems like both an hour and a heartbeat later, though Vladimir suspects it's closer to ten minutes, that both tired men are roused from ignoring the world.

"I don't have a key," Claire knocks. Vladimir almost falls over again; well, as far as he could possibly fall from sitting upright to being sprawled on the floor.

Matt is already on his feet, having heard Claire on the stairs, rushing to the door to open it. He ambles back to let Claire in, then locks the door once more. While Matt is in a suit from work, minus shoes, jacket, and tie, Claire is dressed casually. Old jeans, plain t-shirt, and a cardigan adorn her slim frame.

"So, where's the hurt?" she asks Matt, frowning at the lack of apparent hurt. In the now-disappeared afternoon light, Vladimir had been able to faintly see the blossoming bruises on Matt's torso where his shirt pressed too close. In the dark, however, it's not as easy to tell that he needs no medical attention. Not urgently, anyway.

"Um," Matt blinks as Claire flicks on the torch she's fished from her satchel. The beam of light surveys Matt's form, finding no injury.

The nurse rounds on Vladimir, light shining in his eyes. He raises a hand feebly to hinder the assault, squinting ahead. The halo of light crawls away, downward, before settling on the wound. The skin not painted with blood is sallow under the yellow light. Vladimir knows it to be pale as opposed to jaundiced after hours scrutinising the usually covered wound.

"Of course," Claire sounds another long-suffering sigh, realising she's been lied to, and looks to the door for escape. Vladimir can't blame her. "Those are the stitches the doctor gave you?" she asks, gaze returning to the torch's beam.

"Yes," Vladimir grates out, oddly fearful.

"And you tore them?"

"Yes."

"How'd you manage that?"

Vladimir glances to Matt as if it's somehow his fault, but then remembers Matt can't see if he glares. He decides to not waste the effort on the endeavour.

"Fell over, trying to walk," he says.

Claire chuckles, lowering the torchlight. She moves to take Matt's earlier place, sitting by the suture kit and shifting it closer to the patient. Her long, dark hair hangs loosely, further blocking what little light filters through the windows.

She sets the torch down, gathering up the very same needles and stitches Matt was going to use. "Hey," she turns away from the split wound as she dons the disposable gloves she brought, "Matt, can you come over here and hold the torch?"

"Sure," the brunet says, walking from his place by the table to kneel by Vladimir's other side, accepting the torch. He directs its weak, golden light upon the wound just as Claire begins the first new stitch.

The blond cringes at the stinging sensation, but the nurse's hands move so deftly that the first stitch is done within the minute.

"I thought you could stitch up wounds on your own," Claire says, eyes trained on the task at hand.

"Vladimir doesn't think so," Matt explains with a small smile, eyes directed towards nothing in particular. "I thought I'd let him stew in pain for a little longer, if he really wanted."

Claire raises an eyebrow at Vladimir, "Oh, ye of little faith." She draws a section of split skin together with what feels like excessive force. The following stitch is likewise a little vicious. "Well, it's not as bad as it looks."

"And how bad does it look?" Matt asks with a tired smirk. Claire rolls her eyes.

"Bad," Vladimir answers, tone biting. "Not the worst, but still not the best. Bleeding." He tries not to writhe as the needle continues its work.

"Well, at least that means the flesh is okay, and not totally scar tissue," Claire shrugs. She continues her work in silence, resigned from furthering any conversation.

Tension simmers between the trio, low and ominous, but not overwhelming. Vladimir understands now how mature Claire is; he'd known her resolve, of course, when she'd held out on information about the Man in the Mask. Now, her deserved spite is restrained; she could've refused to help at all. Vladimir guesses it's part of her job as a nurse to treat people who she suspects don't deserve it. At the hospital, it's not her place to choose whom to treat. Here, it is, and yet…

Within a quarter of an hour, the stitches are done. Claire cleans up her handiwork with some paper towels she'd asked Matt to fetch, reapplies fresh bandages, and discards the gloves.

"It looks like was almost healed enough to walk, too," the nurse laments. "Wait a couple of days, and try again, if you must. With help," she says pointedly, "I'm not stitching you up again because you wanted to waddle around too early."

Vladimir's mind curls around the unfamiliar word, thinking from the sound that it's childish. He nods his thanks, absently wishing the power would turn back on. It's twenty-first century New York City; he can't believe it's taking this long.

"Matt," he calls, one arm raised.

"Up?" Claire chuckles from the kitchen, water running over her hands.

Vladimir glares at her half-turned head, but there's little anger behind it. He loses the scowl completely when Matt walks over, hands latching on Vladimir's shoulders and hauling him upwards. Claire turns back to the sink, switching the tap off. The lawyer helps Vladimir hobble to the couch and lowers him to his normal resting spot.

"This won't happen again," Claire says, gathering up her things. "Unless you're both out of commission, I don't want to hear about it."

"Thank you," Vladimir says, slowly.

Claire raises an eyebrow at this, flicking on the torch and shining it in the blond's eyes. "Really?"

"Yes, I'm grateful for your help," he answers.

The nurse gives Matt a quizzical look. Sensing it, he shrugs.

"He's telling the truth," Matt says, "he does that sometimes."

Claire smiles again, tight-lipped. "You're welcome," she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from her vision, "but only this once." With that, she takes her leave, out the door and gone.

After locking the door, Matt walks past the criminal, speaking only as he enters his bedroom. "That was a lie, you know," he says.

It's safe to say that Matt dislikes shopping. Tinny speakers play whatever music some department store higher-up decides encourages good moods. Idle parents chat and deduce the best clothes to buy for their kids, or peruse the sales sections. Foggy makes snide comments about every object in the store.

"Really? What's this phone even supposed to do? Associate numbers with animals, or animal noises with numbers, or colours…" Foggy says, pressing a button on the children's toy.

"Three! Blue! Cow!" the plastic phone cheers.

"Weird," Foggy concludes, putting it back on the shelf. "Why are we even in this section, anyway?"

"Past it is linen," Matt explains. They're already picked up a few days' worth of cheap, casual clothes, and so are almost done; thank goodness.

"Right," Foggy nods as the duo walk on. "Why do we need to go there again?"

"My apartment can get cold, but not enough to turn on the heating," Matt says, recognising the smell of treated cotton and synthetics as they finally leave the maze of the children's section. Neither of the lawyers have money to throw around, but Matt figures once he goes to one of the safe houses and picks up the money, it won't matter if he gets a blanket.

There are piles upon piles on blankets on shelves, thread counts and quality increasing as the aisle continues. Matt stops, turning to his right; there's a quilt that's out of place. Upon running a hand over the misplaced item and the ones surrounding it, his suspicions are confirmed.

"What's this?" he asks, frowning.

"It's a baby's blanket, or a kid's, or something," Foggy says, pausing to flick at the item, "I mean, there's got a price tag –which is reasonable, by the way – so someone didn't just leave it here. It's, er, colourful, and weirdly giant."

"With patterns?" Matt asks, caressing the patchwork.

"Yeah," Foggy says, dismissive.

"What are they?"

"Kids' stuff; elephants, polka dots, birds, flowers. That sort of thing. Why? What's up?" Foggy sounds genuinely concerned about the vigilante's sanity. Matt decides to do his best to stave off such worries.

"Just wondering," he says airily. "Is it blue, or pink, like that?"

"Middle ground; lots of colours. C'mon, it's for kids," Foggy says, beginning to walk away. "There's tonnes of other blankets here that don't look like they were abandoned in a fit of anger," he mimes the emotion with flailing, accusatory movements. "You chew that blanket one more time, I will leave it in the store! Y'know."

Matt considers such a take on the randomness of the quilt. After a quick check that there's no excessive saliva on the blanket, as Foggy suggested, Matt makes his decision. "I'll take it. My apartment could use a bit of colour, after all."

He's sure Foggy rolls his eyes. "Har-har, Murdock. Hilarious, as usual," the other man says, hair brushing his collar as he shakes his head. "That thing," Foggy says with more than a little disgust, "belongs nowhere except a nursery."

In all fairness, Vladimir is struggling to walk; and true, that should be tragic, and for anyone else, it would be. Vladimir can deal with the comparison, however, since he deserves it. "I don't think he'd like it. But that's kind of the point," Matt mumbles to himself.

"Who?" Foggy asks, more upbeat than suspicious.

Matt's brain short-circuits at his own idiocy. "Who what?"

"'He' who?" Foggy clarifies.

"''He' who' wha-?" Matt parrots, hoping his friend will get fed up with asking and-

"Wait, 'he' is the friend crashing at your place, right?" Foggy snaps his fingers at the realisation. "That makes more sense than you actually wanting to buy this. A joke gift; that's a good idea. But I thought you said he was just passing through."

The vigilante blanches at this, blood leaving his face as his mind attempts to construct an explanation. He realises with a painful pang that it might be easier if he stopped lying-

"He came back," Matt says lamely, grabbing the blanket with his free hand, tossing it into the plastic basket in his other hand. The heavy fabric announces its fall with a resonant thud.

"Ah, bit of a wanderer, huh? That's cool. I bet he's cool," Foggy says happily, heartbeat unwavering.

Matt sighs. "He's really not," he smiles at his best friend, unease washing away.

"I don't believe it. Cool enough to stay at your place equals at least a little cool, right? You've gotta introduce us sometime. I feel like I'm being replaced," Foggy says dramatically, a hand over his heart.

"Maybe later in the week," Matt says, hoping it sounds enough like a 'no' to deter the other man.

"Awesome! I mean, my presence is a constant gift, and it's the season of giving," Foggy says, matter-of-fact, spinning on his heel to face the exit of the store. "Off we go," he says, making sure Matt knows they're leaving.

"It's fall," the vigilante frowns.

"It's always nice to be giving, Matthew," Foggy waves off the fact. Matt rolls his eyes, and moves the topic onto a new development the city is planning, content to bask in the escapism of spending carefree time with his best friend.

* * *

Russian:  
tóchnyy / то́чный ~ precise/exact  
Allo / Алло ~ hello  
medsestra / медсестра ~ nurse  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	9. The Deer Without a Heart

"It is," Vladimir racks his mind for the word, "hideous." He scoops up another bite of cereal with his left hand, right wrist testing its flexibility gingerly. It's improving, but he'd prefer to feign left-handedness than have a repeat of yesterday's fall.

"So I've heard," Matt hums, folding up the new clothes on the unoccupied section of the dining table.

"It belongs nowhere except a baby's room," Vladimir says through a mouthful of sugary wheat, right hand gesturing to the offending quilt in front of his bowl.

"Indeed," the vigilante says, placing the last shirt upon the small, neat stack. He ties up the plastic bag that the clothes were carried in and offers no further explanation.

Vladimir refrains from sighing. "Why did you buy this?" he asks.

Matt smiles at this, small and mischievous. "It's for you," he says.

"Oh," the blond says, surprised.

That makes no sense; Vladimir isn't a child. He blinks several times at the blanket, then Matt. He sniffs and takes another spoon of cereal. They both know cereal is a breakfast food, and though Matt offered to go out again and buy lunch, Vladimir prefers the current situation. He's not sure why.

"Thank you. But, you can keep this," Vladimir says nudging the folded quilt away with his right elbow.

The American chuckles and shakes his head. He leaves to put the plastic bag with the others he keeps in the kitchen. Vladimir's gaze follows him, before flitting to the sofa and its balled-up blanket.

"Oh," he repeats, waving to the original quilt with the spoon. "You got this second blanket because the first blanket is old."

"Yep. Do you like it?" Matt asks, smile evolving into a grin. He returns to the table with an empty cardboard box and piles the few sets of clothes into it.

Vladimir squints at him with one eye whilst procuring a spoonful of cereal. After a moment of chewing, he says, "I was never cold."

Matt's laugh is all warmth. "Well, the old one will go back to its home in the cupboard, and your one can take its place on the couch. Where you don't use it, of course," he says.

"So funny," Vladimir tells the cereal, sarcastic.

Time passes ineffectually until dusk falls. Vladimir took a nap and protested getting help with walking, to no avail. He didn't want to tear the stitches again, but he was confident he could navigate from the table to the sofa. Probably.

The silly quilt is on the floor next to the sofa, still neatly folded and brand new. It's a last resort. Dinner was spaghetti drowning in bacon and cheap pasta sauce, made and waiting when Vladimir awoke half an hour ago.

He sits at the window-end of the couch, back supported by the pillows he thieved from the armchairs. Watches the clear light of day begin to fade behind surrounding buildings. Matt has been wandering around since Vladimir woke up, filling a gym bag with an extra change of clothes, folded over the vigilante gear. They're not much, but appear to be made of thicker material, small patches of armour in places.

"You are going to find Owlsley?" Vladimir asks when the lawyer appears ready to leave.

Matt zips up the bag, hefting it onto a shoulder. "I know where he'll be," he says, tone even.

"And what will you say?"

Matt frowns at Vladimir, made clear with his face devoid of the glasses. "I'll ask about Fisk, the records of his business. You were only told so much; Owlsley has to know the ins and outs of the whole operation to organise the money. So, he must keep documents of it somewhere."

Vladimir nods, gut twisting at the hopefulness pervading the brunet's expression. "Okay," he says. "How long?"

"An hour or two. I'm not sure," Matt admits, pausing at something only he can notice. "Is something wrong?"

"Come here," Vladimir says, beckoning with a wave. Pain sluices through his wrist at the movement, hand faltering and falling to the sofa once more.

Matt complies, one hand clutching the duffel bag's strap at his shoulder as he walks from the entryway to the living area in careful, measured steps. His frown disappears; instead, a splash of confusion mars an otherwise plain expression. He waits.

"Owlsley is good with numbers, but not speaking," the blond explains in a hushed tone. "He is a coward, looking to hide with a crowd. He will run the first chance you give him. But, he thinks he's smart, funny; get him talking to stall time. He disliked me, so tell him I'm dead. Ask the effect of this and he might slip."

"Okay. Thanks," Matt says, shuffling his feet. Itching to go. Vladimir winces inwardly; some hopeful emotion of his own bubbles in his chest, not allowing that to be the end of the conversation.

"Owlsley is old, weak, and afraid," he says, almost rambling. Searching for an anchor, he reaches out with his injured hand for Matt's. The vigilante flinches, blinking in confusion. "You will be fine," Vladimir says, calloused fingers squeezing the other's palm.

Matt's hand curls to return the pressure for a fleeting moment before he pulls away. "I will," he confirms, turning on his heel. Vladimir looks away as Matt leaves, gaze fixed upon the window casing's shadow. The light is growing dull, the sun having retreated minutes ago.

The door clicks open, shut, and locked again. Footsteps fade. Vladimir's breaths are slow and even, so the gunshot wound maintains its regular thrum of dulled pain. Despite the pleasant temperature of the air, a chill weaves its way through his body, unsettling and uncomfortable.

Vladimir sighs, cursing softly as he admits defeat, and reaches for the ridiculous quilt. He hauls it up and spreads the material with limited movements. It takes a tiresome amount of shuffling and fidgeting, but he's soon engulfed in the fresh-smelling blanket, extra pillows abandoned.

Matt should be fine. Vladimir has seen him fight, disarm police with a few moves and send them to the ground with the next. Worry presses at the edge of his consciousness regardless of this; little thoughts that undermine his surety. He wonders if Owlsley has goons around, or if he's meeting someone who does; if Nobu is there, who definitely has goons; if the police show up and arrest Matt; if Owlsley has a weapon and catches Matt off guard.

Vladimir knows the Devil of Hell's Kitchen can take on hired muscle; he saw the aftermath of Matt's visit to the Troika restaurant to take back the little boy. But in a less secure location, with skittish opponents afraid of being ousted from the organisation, possibly via bombs…

It's as though Vladimir has been living in a bubble since the bombings, healing and sleeping, and sometimes talking to Matt. The presumed safety of the vigilante's apartment and being under his care has diluted Vladimir's stress over the turbulence of his life. A storm that had settled but not dissipated; out of sight, out of mind.

Despite its impossibility, Vladimir wishes he could go along. To laugh in Owlsley's face, to beat it bloody, to crunch gnarled fingers under his heel before pulling the trigger. Even to watch as Matt beats information from the old man and bask in his well-deserved pain. More importantly, one could ensure the Devil of Hell's Kitchen prevails, if there's someone in the background with a gun trained on Owlsley's head.

In his current state, Vladimir knows he can't do any of that; has to keep his still-being-alive a well-guarded secret. But he's joined Matt's crusade against Fisk by providing information. He's determined to do more to defeat Fisk, when he can. Wants to kill him.

Such a hope seems far-off, intangible. Fisk has the police and a good chunk of organised crime on his side while the Man in the Mask is hated by all. Overwhelmed by hopelessness – not willing to give in – Vladimir decides that this is a matter for deeper thought, later.

Vladimir huffs out a breath, wriggles once more, and tries to sleep. He knows that by the time he wakes, the sun will be long gone, and sodium light make its way up from the streetlamps far below. He can only hope that Matt will be there, too.

As he sneaks out the locker-room exit of Fogwell's Gym – regular clothes and bag stowed in an unused locker – Matt recalls his route, mapping it out mentally. The new parking garage is safe; final work on it has ceased for the day now that night has fallen.

Owlsley has ties to the construction company, has represented them through Silver & Brent; could bullshit his reason for being there with an affronted adjustment of his suit. Whoever he's meeting could do the same, Matt guesses.

It's three blocks away and Matt knows which alleyways to take. Most days, he tries to avoid going out as the Man in Black until it's hours past sunset. But this could be his only opportunity before Owlsley finds a new meeting place. The time is approaching eight pm; it'll have to be late enough.

After the bombings, Matt is warier than ever of being caught. Even Foggy wouldn't be on his side, at least not at first. Their conversation from Thursday rings bright yet ominous in his mind.

 _All terror without the 'ist'_ , Matt recalls his best friend saying. That whole exchange, despite Karen's calm defence, had twisted the guilt-knife a little deeper. Matt gets it, he does, but it's just- Foggy doesn't _understand_ , can't understand without all the facts…

The parking garage is in an upscale part of Hell's Kitchen; that is to say, it borders the Theatre District, is next to a mall, and flanked by boutiques and gourmet restaurants. Matt concentrates on where the meeting is taking place, which overshadows the memories he's working on to compartmentalise.

Voices filter into Matt's range of hearing once he's two buildings away, keeping a quick pace as he navigates the alleyways. They exchange something like greetings, stiff and removed.

"… funds have been reallocated as requested. All the arrangements made per your agreement with the guy we're not supposed to blah blah blah," one man trails off. His heart is weakened with age, voice world-weary.

"Owlsley," Matt hisses, dodging an expansive puddle in a sunken area of concrete. One of the more annoying nuances of not only living in New York, but patrolling there as the Masked Man is the residual stench of the dumpsters. He's half-sure it'll never leave his vigilante clothes. He sucks in deep breaths anyway, pacing himself to reach the lower level of the parking garage and be ready to fight.

"Business may continue?" another man asks, words slightly accented. Japanese, maybe? His heart is younger and fitter than Owlsley's, but still very much grown.

"In the best possible way… uninterrupted," the accountant says.

Matt slows his run to a jog as he reaches the new construct. It's all concrete, metal, and electrical fittings, with only several cars and four men inside. The vigilante stalks around an unyielding wall to a side door. Turning the handle and pushing through, Matt observes the stairwell before him. It, at least, is done.

Owlsley's voice wafts down from levels above, as he continues, "So, uh, what are you going to do with it when it arrives?"

The other man shifts; a little surprised, but more annoyed. It's different to discern nuances while bounding up a set of concrete stairs nimbly enough to make no noise, but Matt manages.

"What, you think I'm a doddering pencil-pusher who moves enormous amounts of money with no clue as to what it's connected to?" Owlsley says, chuckling. "The numbers are like tea leaves; nobody reads them like I can. You're laying out major reserves to clear the docks to make sure the police don't come within ten blocks. More to bribe the comptrollers to guarantee straight greens." He laughs again at an internal joke. "Know how much all that costs? I do."

"There is a point to all your words?" the Japanese man asks.

"Yeah, I got a…" Owlsley says, then clears his throat, nerves trickling into his voice. "What happened to the Russians… we need to be careful, all of us. I look out for you, you look out for me. All I'm saying."

Matt wants to scoff. Vladimir appears to be right; Owlsley is trying to cover his own hide, afraid of what Fisk might consider necessary for business. The lawyer slows his pace at the third level, careful to stay out of sight.

"Each man must stand for himself, or fall with the unworthy," the second man says with a tone of finality. Expensive shoes brush against the damp concrete floor as he goes to his car. The two men who haven't spoken are armed, the metal of their guns meeting waiting hands as they too go to the car.

"What the hell does that mean?" Owlsley mutters, shaking his head in disbelief and disappointment.

The engine rumbles to life without so much as a hiccup and rolls away with ease. Matt takes measured breaths, prepared to wait only until the other car leaves before confronting Owlsley.

"Prick," Owlsley says as the car leaves this level for the next, retrieving his keys from his pocket. The locks click open.

Matt crosses the concrete in brisk steps, combat boots near-silent as he dodges the puddles. He does his best to stay calm, to exude confidence and threatening; tall posture, blank face. Fists prepared to fly.

"Oh, God!" Owlsley exclaims as he realises Matt is there, heartbeat elevating in fear and surprise. He whirls around to face the Masked Man two yards away, leaning against the car for support. "What do you want? My wallet?"

"You know what I want," Matt says, voice low and calm. "Tell me about the man you work for."

Owlsley exhales in a huff. "I work for Silver & Brent," he says; not quite a lie, but not quite the whole truth.

Matt takes four steps closer. "I'm gonna ask you again," he says, noncommittal. "Think about your answer." He allows a beat to pass. "Who do you work for?"

"I told you," Owlsley stutters, "I work for Silver and-"

The constant swirl of rage Matt's been harbouring towards this man – to anyone who stands by Fisk – rears at this denial. He punches the side of the old man's jaw, who flails to the ground. The vigilante catches Owlsley by his tie, yanking up so they're face-to-face. Giving the illusion the Matt can see him.

"You work for Wilson Fisk…" he corrects, "moving his money around. Which means you have records, proof of who-"

A distant clicking sound reaches his ears – a cane, tapping against concrete – but Matt disregards it. There are tens thousands of blind people in New York City.

"Who told you that, huh?" Owsley says, snide. "I guess you helped Vladimir get away? I thought he must still be alive since no one's found the body. He must be smarter than I thought to not get caught; have heart to trust the likes of you to keep on living."

Though Owlsley is at his mercy, Matt feels like he's been punched in the gut. He takes a heavy breath through gritted teeth before speaking. "Heart?" he whispers, then proclaims, "Vladimir didn't have courage, he had pride; enough to think he was infallible, powerful. And that got his brother killed, mob blown up, and himself shot. His _heart_ gave out as soon as we were above ground. Dumped him in the river in a trash bag. He's gone."

"Figures," Owlsley coughs, air supply waning. "Rats can only tread water for so long."

Matt frowns behind the makeshift mask, confused by Owlsley's second idiotic metaphor of the night.

The clickety clack of a cane tapping rhythmically against the floor sounds again, supported by a heart so old it shouldn't have the energy to beat anymore.

Its owner murmurs, "Stop, Matty."

The vigilante's grip on Owlsley's tie falters, hold weakening. There's a beat of confusion, a momentary shock to his system. Because it can't be- Stick is _gone_ , should be long-dead-

Blinding pain interrupts thought, accompanied by the buzz of a stun gun. The shock rips through him, causing shudders of agony as he falls like a plank, with a choked-off gasp. He hits the floor hard, body stiff and unyielding.

"Asshole," Owlsley mutters, jumping into his car. The engine roars to life and the car zooms off.

Above Matt's involuntary groans and grunts, the tapping cane gets closer. He barely notices, because the pain is, _Goddamn_ , inconceivable. Like his side is being beaten with dozens of baseball bats. He rolls onto his back as the pain finally begins to ebb, fading from waves to blips.

"You just gonna lie there all night?" Stick asks as he stops a few feet away.

Matt writhes, struggling to move and shake the pain from his body. He pushes against the concrete with his elbows, knees drawing up as he plants a shaky hand on the floor. "Stick," he manages to say. It's incorrect, now, that he thought of Owlsley as old in comparison to Stick. Stick was elderly when they met; he has to be ancient, now.

"Are you gonna lie there all night or get up off your ass?" Stick says, awaiting a response.

The vigilante pushes off the ground, reaching an arm in front of himself to stay steady as he stands on shaky legs. Disappointment at letting Owlsley get away is ripe in his mind, but he's so _confused_ , too, overwhelmed by bitter nostalgia.

"Jesus, kid. I'm gone five minutes, you turn this place into a shit show," Stick says.

"You've been gone twenty years," Matt snaps, rising to his full height to help regain his composure, "What are you doing back in my city?"

"Your city?" Stick mocks, head turning as if looking around, "Hell's Kitchen hates your guts. They have you pegged as a cop killer and some kind of mad bomber." He doesn't smell like he's been back in Manhattan very long. The warm stench of home hasn't sunk back into his skin yet; a wisp of incense and foreign soil and – ugh – someone else's blood take its place. But Matt can't figure out where Stick has been; his clothes have been washed with hospital-grade detergent.

"Yeah, I'm taking care of it," Matt bites out.

"An old guy just lit you up. You ain't taking care of shit."

"Why are you here?" Matt asks, both fearing and eager for the answer. He goes with feeling resigned about the whole matter.

"To save you… and everyone in the Kitchen from a horrible death," Stick explains. He sniffs, "More or less."

Matt clenches his jaw, frown unseen. They can't talk here. Whatever Stick believes is headed the Kitchen's way, it's too important to discuss here. Owlsley might have come to his senses, sending a SWAT team this way. Anyone could roll into the parking garage on accident, and chance upon the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and his blind mentor.

"Not here," Matt says, without room for argument. "I," he hesitates, considering his options – of which there are none, "we can go to my apartment. I'll take you there." He can pick his bag and normal-people clothes up from the gym tomorrow on the way home from work.

Stick sniffs again. "Like I couldn't find my own way there if I wanted, kid. Got your scent, now," he says, spinning on his heel and click-clacking to the stairwell.

"Six blocks," the lawyer explains, disregarding Stick's comment, "no talking. Think you can do that?"

Stick scoffs, but voices no words as he begins the staircase's descent. Matt follows, dreading what's to come.


	10. Loose Lips Sink Ships

Vladimir is half-asleep when footsteps descend the stairs from the rooftop entrance. He jerks to sit up halfway, right arm flailing. A snort leaves his throat as he tries to breathe whilst blinking against the lack of light. The street lamps below illuminate the loft in a dull yellow and that dumb sign is flaring white, but they're no match for the nighttime.

First on the stairs is someone he doesn't recognise; a man so like a grayish raisin, he looks an inch above six feet under. "And who're you?" he asks.

Vladimir starts at this, left hand grappling for the back of the couch, ready to get up and fight. _Why would Matt bring someone here who doesn't know what's going on?_ he thinks. This can't be one of Matt's friends; they walk at a distance from each other, disdain tangible in the air.

"Calm down, sh," Matt's voice echoes from the top of the stairs, probably rolling his eyes behind the mask.

The blond squints at Matt's attitude, but can't help the wave of relief that washes over him. He breathes in, preparing to ask _who the_ -

"Don't say anything," Matt instructs. The old man wanders to the armchair, folding up his cane to settle it against the furniture. But, apart from the glasses and cane, the man doesn't seem blind.

Vladimir makes an affronted noise, then inhales again to speak.

"Please, don't speak. Trust me," the lawyer says, a single hand raised as he departs the last stair. He lowers the hand, fatigue evident in his posture; he's not slouching, but Vladimir knows tired when he sees it.

"What, you don't want me to know who this shot guy in the baby blanket is?" the old man asks, removing his glasses to reveal milky eyes.

Great. So, there's two of these blind men have four otherworldly senses. Vladimir heaves a great sigh, then remembers the blanket, eyes wide. He planned to discard the quilt when Matt returned, denying that it's nice and soft as opposed to ridiculous. He grabs at its edge, slid a little ways down his chest as his left hand holds his torso up. The quilt provides an odd background for his tattooed hand; he drops it in defeat and hauls himself to sit up, shuffling around.

Matt smirks, walking along the window side of the space towards the other arm chair. He loses the wry smile when the old man speaks again.

"Fine, keep your secrets, I don't care. I'm sure he'll succumb to his wounds sooner or later," he shrugs with a sniff. "You had a woman in here, too. And another, before then, but…. What, a doctor and then a nurse? Frequenting the hospital, are we?"

"That's none of your business," Matt says, not missing a beat. He stops by the coffee table and hesitates. Vladimir itches to defend himself against this intruder, to ask what he's doing here. After a last glance at Matt, Vladimir turns to glare at the old man.

The garbage-person in question turns around to survey the apartment, tone idle, "The nurse has been here more often; when's she coming back?"

"Never."

"Good.

"You got a warped perspective on the whole good/bad thing, you know that?"

The old man sighs, nodding from side to side. "Women are a distraction. Just like… furniture, apartments…" he moves around, gesturing without hands. "Mysterious, wounded people who don't speak."

Matt shifts from foot to foot, uneasy. He's standing on the edge of Vladimir's range of vision, not quite standing between him and the old man. In his incapacitated state, it makes Vladimir feel safer.

"Whoa," the old man raises a hand toward the bedroom. "Silk sheets," he sighs.

Matt rolls his shoulders under scruple. "Cotton feels like sandpaper on my skin," he explains, unhappy. Vladimir attempts to intensify his glare.

"You'd be better off sleeping on real sandpaper than surrounding yourself with all this bullshit," the old man says.

Vladimir finds no value in the stripped-back, 'simple' life this guy is preaching about. A sore spine and scratched-up skin do nothing but fuel the negative emotions that got you there. Pigeonhole you to a solution, but not necessarily the right one.

"This is my life and I made something of it, without you. That's the part that really pisses you off, isn't it?" Matt says, trying to pick at scabbed-over wounds and finding only scars.

The old man continues his careless sway, unaffected. "No, Matty. No, I'm proud of you, I really am. The things you've done, what you've made of yourself, but this is…. Surrounding yourself with soft stuff isn't life, it's death. Someday those silk sheets are gonna crawl up behind you, wrap themselves around your throat and choke you to death. You're a warrior."

Despite not knowing the history – why would this old guy say he's _proud_ , who does he think he is? – Vladimir doesn't believe a word the old man says.

Matt takes several steps closer to the old man, causing them both to move away from the rug and into the open space. Vladimir isn't sure what to make of any of this; Matt and the old man must know each other from years previous, but not too well, not anymore. There's no air of familiarity, no familial bond.

"Yeah… that's not all I am," Matt says. The brunet readjusts his stance, purplish hues dancing across his face, tinged with sodium light. He hesitates before taking a step back, resting back against the arm of the couch. He heaves a silent sigh as the old man continues his tirade.

After calling Matt a warrior and encouraging the hermit life once more, the old man asks questions. "Do you have friends? People you care about?"

"Yeah, two. Or, three," Matt says with a nervous glance to the occupant of the sofa. Something in Vladimir's chest twinges at the addition. But he knows Matt is lying, to keep up the facade of Vladimir being here for a reason, for deserving Matt's help.

"Cut those two loose, for their sake. Break their hearts if you have to, just do it quick. And toss this urchin back out onto the street, while you're at it," the old man nods to Vladimir with a sneer.

"I'm not gonna do that."

Vladimir can't fathom why Matt continues to answer these questions with weak denial and tolerate such scathing advice. This old man, whoever he is, can't barge into Matt's life…

The lawyer can hold his ground well enough, retain dignity and his own brand of elegance, even in this heavy, quiet argument that Vladimir doesn't quite understand. He resigns himself to silence and imagines killing the old man every time he speaks.

Matt thinks he has a handle on the situation – mostly – until Stick brings up his father. The ghostly sting of the stun gun and almost-healed bruises from past night time ventures ache, but he wants nothing more than to throw a punch, regardless.

He goes to grab at the collar of Stick's jacket, to twist him into a punch. But Stick catches his wrist and twists his arm around. Matt heaves a breath, taking a second to remember how to get out of the hold.

A kick and a flip isn't the easiest way to escape a hold – or anything, in fact – but then, that's not a simple hold. Matt puts distance between himself and his former mentor and takes his stance, ready for another hit.

But Stick laughs instead, makes another barbed comment. Matt shrugs it off, trying to ignore the third heartbeat – fast and worried, thanks to the fight – in the room. When asked for beer, Matt says he's all out, for which he receives a scathing grumble. He resumes his spot of the edge of the sofa as Stick talks about a secret, ongoing war.

"Someday, it's gonna come down to you or the other guy. If it's not Fisk, somebody else. What're you gonna do then?" Stick poses a question Matt has certainly heard before.

"Whatever's right," he says. He hopes it's the truth.

Matt hesitates atop his apartment building's roof, aching feet slowing to a halt. Stick has already returned to wait in Matt's apartment with less patience than you'd expect of someone who meditates so much. He could hear the one-sided chatter a block away; Stick asking how Vladimir got shot, why he's at Matt's apartment, when is he going to leave.

"How are you useful, at all?" Stick mutters, tone biting. "Let me guess; you sit here all day, watching the sun rise and set, while Matt is out there scraping together the money to survive. Sure, he wastes it on furnishings and other shit, but it's worse to waste it on you. What are you, friends? Why is he keeping you here?"

Vladimir doesn't speak, as he hasn't since Stick barged his way back into Matt's life, demanding a warrior to neutralise a weapon.

Matt holds back an angry sigh and makes his way to the access door, heavy boots thudding against the old stairs. He tugs off his mask and throws it to fall somewhere by the closest window.

"What are you trying to do, Stick? Leave him alone," Matt says after descending the stairs. He begins to work on removing his armoured gloves, pulling at Velcro and loosening supporting straps.

Stick harrumphs, wholly unimpressed. "Ease up on the stomping, would you?" he pauses. "Never thought you'd be this secretive, not with me."

"You promised me you weren't gonna kill anyone," Matt avoids the comment, leaving his gloves with the mask and traipsing over to Stick.

"Yep," Stick says from where he sits on one arm of the couch. Vladimir sits at the other end, legs crossed to get as far away from Stick as possible.

"Then what the hell was that back there?" Matt asks, waiting for a misstep in Stick's heartbeat that will expose a lie. He's aware he won't find one, not with how much training Stick has done. He listens anyway.

"The mission."

"That's what your war's come to, killing children?" Matt says, disgusted. The war he knows too little about, the war Hell's Kitchen doesn't deserve. The war that kid shouldn't have been a part of.

Stick sighs. "That thing in the container was not a child," he says, as if it's obvious.

"I could hear his heartbeat," Matt argues, "it was light and fast. He hadn't even hit puberty."

"You're emotional," Stick observes.

Matt shifts, but doesn't back away. "Yeah, no shit."

"If you'd have focused beyond your crybaby feelings, you would've sensed what that kid really was."

"He was just a kid," Matt insists. There was nothing extraordinary about the kid, from what he could tell; frightened, young, but not a weapon.

"You're blind as you ever were."

"Maybe you should've stuck around and finished training me yourself."

"I needed a soldier. You wanted a father."

"Well, I guess we're both disappointed then."

"I guess we are," Stick says, grunting as he stands and turns to leave. "You take care of yourself, Matty. Rest in peace, o silent one."

"I'm not gonna let you kill that kid." Matt doesn't know what he'll do if he finds the kid first, or if he can't even find the kid, but he'll do what he can.

"Oh, he's already dead. I caught up with the van while you were dicking around with Nobu's men. I put an arrow in that _thing's_ heart."

Matt yells in rage and charges for his former mentor, body burning to step forward and _maim_. He throws a punch to distract, another with as much force as he can muster to jab at aged ribs. Ignores the pain exploding across his bare knuckles. Despite the rage exploding in his chest, Matt is focused. Stick murdered a kid without a second thought. Matt will make sure he pays for it.

Stick lands a punch of his own to the side of Matt's head, knocking in a wave of dizziness. Matt growls, lunging instead of punching, and sends a knee to knock the wind out of his opponent. He would try to throw Stick to the ground if his own weight wouldn't be used against him. Stick regains some control, hands scrabbling to claw at Matt's neck.

A hard shove hits both combatants – one hand pushing against a shoulder of each – so that they stumble away. Matt lets go of Stick the second the fury clouding his senses dissipates enough for him to realise who pushed him.

" _Oy, nyet._ No, no, no! Not happening!" Vladimir snaps through gritted teeth, hands waving with distressed fervour.

"Russian?" Stick ponders, confused even as he regains his posture.

"Russian?" Vladimir mocks him, voice high and wavering. He hobbles to Matt to lay a hand on his shoulder with unnecessary force. Matt doesn't understand, at first; he doesn't need or want someone to say 'there, there' and put a hand-

 _Vladimir shouldn't be walking_ , he remembers. Chest heaving with the exertion of fighting, Matt raises his left arm to wrap around Vladimir's back, hand pressed at the top of his ribs. The criminal relaxes with a huff, his posture sinking. He raises his right arm to lay it over Matt's shoulders, fingers digging into the far shoulder for leverage to stay upright.

After a deep breath, Vladimir speaks again, accent heavy. "You take your bullshit and leave Matt alone, he doesn't need you here," he says. "You find someone else to fight and follow whatever you say, whoever to kill. You know this is not Matt, so leave."

"You think you're in charge here?" Stick scoffs.

"I think," Vladimir says, "that you should leave."

"Nice catching up, Matty," Stick says. "Would've been nicer without the half-dead guard dog. Still, there may be hope for you yet." He dodges the pair to snatch up his stick-weapons from the coffee table.

"Goodbye, Stick," the lawyer says, voice even. The words echo in his head, bounding off walls and scuttling down crevices. Matt figures he'll see Stick again, if this so-called war is real.

The door closes behind his past mentor, soft but resonant. Matt sighs in relief. Vladimir's breathing is a little more laboured, heart rate elevated from breaking up the fight.

"Are you okay?" Matt asks, head turning to the side but otherwise unmoving.

Vladimir cracks his neck. "You will never make me do that again," he says with a sigh, "stay quiet and listen to him talk _shit_. You will tell me about him more later, yes?"

"Later?" Matt parrots, the withering pain of the hits he's taken tonight sinking in. Sure, the pain has been there since each blow struck him, but it's only in the relative calm that Matt feels them all the way to his bones.

"Tomorrow. You need sleep. I, I need sleep," the Russian trails off, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Matt isn't sure if it's a slip-up or he's being babied again – what was he doing, trying to fight Stick? – and so ignores it. He helps Vladimir stumble back to the couch and lie down with minimal grace.

It has to be very early morning by now; confronting Owlsley feels like a lifetime ago after Stick arrived, and their visit to the docks. The kid… Matt can't believe he lost track of him in the fight with the other mob goons. He gets so caught up in combat, in predicting blows and dealing out beatings of his own, he can lose focus of the world beyond the people he's fighting.

The disappointment of failing to save a child, of needing someone to step in when he loses it in a fight, looms over his head.

" _Ya tak ustal_ ," Vladimir says, breathing deeply.

"Better change your bandages," Matt mumbles, going to the kitchen to locate the bag of gifted medical supplies. He returns, after washing his hands, to place them on the table, sitting down by the sofa to unlace and kick off his combat boots.

Vladimir lets out a quiet, pained whine when Matt peels away the medical tape, too tired to bother suppressing his annoyance. The wound has no odd scent about it, leading Matt to believe it's not horrifically infected, at least.

"Did not think you would fight him over killing the kid," Vladimir hums as the new bandages are applied. " _V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa_. In a quiet pond, devils dwell."

Matt frowns as he puts the finishing touches on the new tape. "Do you mean, um, 'still waters run deep'?" he asks, licking his lips as he concentrates.

"I suppose," Vladimir says, voice soft and heartbeat slow as he relaxes. His eyelids flutter with each blink, threatening to shut and let slumber take over. "I think that phrase is familiar."

"It's true, you know," the vigilante muses, knuckles ghosting over Vladimir's abdomen as he pulls the shirt back over the wound. Matt turns away to pack up the supplies and clears his throat before continuing. "You never know what's going on below the surface. What people are thinking, what's going on in their lives."

Vladimir yawns and rolls his shoulders to sink into the small mound of pillows more. "You can ask them nicely," he says, sounding like he's grinning. "Have you tried that?"

"With interrogating criminals?" Matt chuckles, setting the bag and its contents on the coffee table. Vladimir will need to the meds from it in the morning, anyway. "Yeah, sure, you could say that."

"Or with being a lawyer. You have work again tomorrow, yes?"

"Yeah. Got a meeting with a lawyer from some other firm," Matt drags a hand over his face, stifling a yawn of his own.

"Going to see the two, ah, 'people you care about'? You work with them?"

"Yeah." Matt doesn't say anything else, and frowns. Vladimir is- he won't throw him into the gutter, but he doesn't _care about_ … But he doesn't say that. Doesn't need to.

"Thought so," the criminal whispers, solemn. Matt offers a sympathetic smile as he stands and grabs the blanket from where it fell aside to swathe Vladimir in it. The swaddled person in question is, apparently, too tired to protest at the blanket's babyishness.

Despite drooping eyes and heavy limbs, Matt knows he can't go to sleep yet. "Hey, Vladimir?" he asks. The 'are you awake?' is implied.

"Yes?"

Matt clears his throat to speak again. "Thank you, for intervening. Er, stopping the second fight," he says, one hand scratching at the back of his neck.

Vladimir hums, content. Matt knows he could just walk away; go to his bed and sleep off the stressful day that lies in his wake.

"But, why did you do it?" he asks, shifting the aching muscles of his upper back underneath the vigilante shirt. His crime-fighting gear all really needs to be washed, now; the shirt, at least, reeks of dried sweat and specks of others' blood. Matt focuses on the scent despite its repulsive nature, but he still can't block out the other man's heartbeat, steady in his sensitive ears.

"Some of your fights are mine, now, too," Vladimir mumbles, eyes now closed.

Matt nods along without thinking, turns on his heel, and goes to his bedroom. The words echo in his head, ringing out, demanding his attention. He shakes his head, eyes closed tight in concentration. He tries ignores the warmth and camaraderie of them, the reassurance that he's not as alone in this side-life as he thought. The lawyer closes the door to his bedroom shut with a sense of finality, of blocking out the criminal resting on his sofa and his sleep-soft voice.

Counting the number of cars going by outside proves rather boring. Identifying the types of sirens in the neighbourhood is depressing when he can't do anything about them. So Matt changes clothes, climbs into his bed, and gives up. He allows himself to fall asleep, amidst silk and the thrum of the other heartbeat not twenty feet away.

* * *

Russian:  
Ey, nyet / Эи, нет ~ Hey, no  
Ya tak ustal / Я так уста́л ~ I'm so tired  
V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa / В тихом омуте черти водятся ~ In a quiet pond/lagoon, devils dwell. Apparently similar to the English 'Still waters run deep'. I got this from some website with a list of proverbs/sayings, so apologies if it's wrong. I'll just take it out if it makes no sense or is unheard of.  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)

(Thank you to the peeps that have left reviews, btw, I really appreciate them :))


	11. The Truth is Good Enough

"Can't you just choose a station? Or turn it off?" Matt calls from where he's knelt by the bathtub, one hand under the running water and the other poised to make adjustments.

The static curls and warps into another pop station broadcasting an advertisement. He rolls his eyes and lessens the amount of hot water. White noise swarms the irritating jingle, crackling over in-between frequencies to a college radio station with rambling folk. Matt silently berates himself for bringing up the ancient device from where it was intent on disintegrating in the cupboard.

"Is the bath ready yet?" Vladimir asks as he turns the tuning dial, sending the speakers into static oblivion once more. The lawyer checks the water's shallow depth with a hand; it should be close enough. As long as the water doesn't soak the bullet wound, it's fine.

"Don't hunch like that; you'll pull your stitches again," Matt says, shutting off the water and shaking it free of his hands. It doesn't matter where the droplets go; he woke up early, and so can wear his pyjamas for a little while longer.

Vladimir scoffs, but admits defeat. He leans away from where he was crouching forward to mess with the radio, back hitting the sofa with a huff.

"You're just going to leave it on static?" Matt asks as he wanders into the living room, wrinkling his nose at the incessant sound.

"Would you like to choose a _radiostantsiya_?" Vladimir sneers, still half-asleep judging by the slowness of his speech. He was barely lucid when he woke up not too long ago, struggling to take his morning antibiotics.

Matt crouches next to the coffee table and turns the dial, familiar stations rolling past until he finds a classical one. "There. Was that so difficult?" he says with a condescending smile, one hand on the table to push off of to stand.

Vladimir raises his arms with a sigh, waiting to be helped up.

"Thought so," Matt says, reaching for the couch gremlin and gingerly lifting him to stand. Vladimir turns his head away when he and Matt get too close; the vigilante can't help Vladimir stand without it turning into a pseudo-hug. At least until Matt steps away and wraps an arm across the other man's shoulders, holding on.

"I am close to walking on my own, you know. Very soon," Vladimir tells the floor as he shuffles along.

"Hopefully," Matt hums, "then I won't have to lug you around the apartment all the time." It's a little odd, he realises, to talk to anyone except Foggy without his glasses on. When he doesn't wear them, people inspect his eyes from afar, looking for a haze or scars or something worse, wondering what those too-red glasses might hide. He supposes it's a little odd, as well, to be dragging a criminal across his apartment on a regular basis.

"Yes, it is more inconvenient for you than for me, apologies, Matt," Vladimir says, breathing laboured with the effort – or is it the pain? – of trekking along. He scrubs his free hand across his jaw, making a dissatisfied noise at the increasing stubble there.

"Almost there," Matt says as they reach the doorway. He hesitates by the sink, and lets go.

Vladimir flails, arms becoming distressed windmills as he scrabbles at the basin for support. He breathes through his nose, distressed and annoyed, and most likely glaring at the lawyer.

Matt shakes his head, brain scrambled at this early hour. "I- sorry. You want to shave your face, right?"

The Russian hums and grits his teeth. "Mind-reader now, are you?" he says, accent thick from annoyance.

"Not quite? I just know what to listen for, in heartbeats, and movement-" Matt explains, hand-gestures unsure and vague.

"It was a joke, Matt," Vladimir says dryly, stance steadying as he adjusts his posture.

The lawyer forces a laugh. "Sure, yeah," he says, uneasiness dulling. He tries to throw his focus somewhere else, to the other people in the apartment building, to snores and Monday-morning news, cartoons and workout music.

"Regardless…" Vladimir reins in his attention, "I am sure you have other things to do. I can stand, and walk to the bath. No need for more help. Like I said, I'm fine by myself."

"You didn't," Matt reminds him, trailing to the living room, one hand raised to catch the doorframe.

" _Ostavlyáesh_ ," Vladimir waves dismissively, not losing any balance over only one hand on the sink. "Go prepare to uphold the law," he mocks, but it's light-hearted.

Back already turned to the criminal, Matt walks on and turns to the bigger cupboard in the living room, by the entryway. He opens the doors, reads a couple of the tags on the suits hanging up before settling on one labelled 'gunmetal'. The frown hasn't left, even as he wanders away to set the suit on the back of an armchair. He understands everyone needs their space, from time to time. The bickering and occasional freak-outs from others in the same dorm hall at college have cemented that in his mind.

"You know, if something's wrong, you can talk to me," he blurts out, loud enough for Vladimir to hear, "I'll understand." It's a stupid suggestion, he knows; Vladimir's life has been mostly ruined in the past couple weeks. Everything is wrong.

Vladimir's heart stutters in confusion, but his hands opening a new razor packet stay steady. " _Chto_?" he asks, head turning to the side to look at Matt. "Oh, no. Everything is alright." He refocuses on the stubborn plastic, tugging at where it should tear. Vladimir sighs as the plastic surrenders. "I simply did not appreciate getting thrown at a sink," he says.

Matt swallows against the lump in his throat, blaming the lack of sleep, the stress – anything – for his impulsive behaviour. He wants to snap out of whatever is going on; get back to the real world, to taking down Fisk and protecting the people of Hell's Kitchen. Vladimir isn't hindering this, with the information he's given Matt…

Something scratches at the edge of his brain, chiding him at his choice of a new friend. He should give his efforts, his secrets, his faith, to someone he's known for a long time, instead of a week.

Matt's heart sinks, unbidden. Maybe it's the reminder that Foggy doesn't know about any of this, or that he might now know Vladimir for more than a week if his health worsens. The situation feels fragile, as if it would only take a single event for everything to fall apart. Matt hates it.

More often than not these days, Vladimir ponders what his life has come to. Two weeks ago, it would have been reasonable that he might have to recover from a bullet wound. The Man in the Mask washing his hair – because one of his wrists is still out of commission – wouldn't seem so reasonable.

The radio struggles along in the next room, smashing out violins and brass sections with fervour.

Matt has a faraway look in his eyes; usually he focuses them on the source of someone's voice, or a distant noise or movement. From his frown, he appears to be having a staring match with the bathroom interior. Not that the bathroom isn't nice and all; dark-painted brick and white furniture, a window in the same style as the others but smaller and overlooking an alleyway.

Vladimir closes his eyes so the shampoo-infected water doesn't run into them and keeps them closed even as Matt speaks.

"I've been thinking about visiting Ben Urich, a reporter from The Bulletin. See if he'll write something about Fisk, with the information we've got," he says, pouring more cold water from a pitcher over the blond's head.

"The one who wrote the Union Allied story?" Vladimir asks, unsure of what Matt thinks will come of such a news story.

"Yeah, him. It'll be what I've found out from thugs; that Fisk is working with the Triad and the Yakuza, and that Owlsley handles the money. Not anything that only you would know," the vigilante says. "If we can just drag Fisk into the light, other people will investigate, too."

Matt doesn't seem like much of a threat to Fisk at the moment; wearing grey pyjamas, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair unkempt, and sat next to a bathtub.

Vladimir laughs. "And what, you want to quote me?"

"I don't think you should get involved in any of it, actually," Matt says, carding his fingers through short hair.

"Why? Might help take down Fisk," Vladimir says, spitting the wretched man's name.

Matt shakes his head. "You'd be dead the second they found out you were still alive. It's not worth it," he says, frowning at the notion.

"Okay, well," Vladimir says. He can feel his own heart beating with unease; he's relieved, and confused, but not quite surprised. It seems like Matt's kind of logic to try to protect everyone he can, to let none but those who deserve it get hurt, and allow nobody to die. It's optimistic, if naïvely so. "What happened when you went to find Owlsley?" the criminal asks, clearing his throat.

Matt's expression softens and his posture relaxes just enough to notice. He breezes through trying to get information from Owlsley and getting a stun gun to the side instead. "And then… Stick showed up-" the brunet continues, pouring more water from the pitcher over Vladimir's head to wash out the shampoo.

"Stick?" Vladimir sputters through the ice water.

"The old guy."

"His name is-? I thought 'stick' was a 'small tree branch'?"

"It is, but that's what he asked me to call him, ever since we met."

"Okay," Vladimir says, not convinced. Surely the old man should have had a boring, pompous name, to suit his righteous, kill-for-a-cause attitude. Something from earlier years of British royal families or something that sounds nasal no matter how you say it.

"I met him about a year after my father died, when I was ten or so, at the orphanage. It felt like… my senses went from zero to a hundred in a few weeks," Matt says, tone even as he dives into another story. Vladimir closes his eyes to listen. "I could hear well, before; kids in other dormitories having nightmares or sneaking around for a midnight snack. But then it just all blew up. I couldn't think, couldn't hear or smell a thing past the bickering and the traffic outside.

"The nuns at the orphanage were disturbed, to say the least," the lawyer continues, shifting stance changing the blurred, blood-red shadows cast over closed eyelids. "Psychologists thought I wanted attention, that I was lying. Stick thought I… needed training. So he taught me how to fight."

"For how long?"

"A few months. Three, three and a half. I, ah," Matt laughs without mirth, "I gave him a gift; folded the wrapper from an ice cream he bought me into a bracelet. He was training me for that so-called war, though; so it- it didn't work out. He left when he realised how sentimental I was. I was a kid," he says, voice faltering.

Vladimir opens his eyes, gut twisting in sympathy at Matt's forlorn expression. He likes Matt's eyes – when they're not hidden by red glass – all the time, but he likes them better without sadness in them.

"You do not have to justify yourself. For all, er, Stick sees – senses – he doesn't appreciate your understanding. Doesn't want to," Vladimir says.

Matt listens, frown lessening. He busies himself with moving the shampoo bottle from the edge of the bath to the floor and swaps it for the conditioner.

"Besides, people fear you already," Vladimir says, rolling his shoulders. "Don't need to kill to do that. They need the fear."

"People shouldn't have to be afraid," Matt shakes his head, adding conditioner.

"Isn't that what you do? Dress in black and fight people, make them fear you?"

"Fear," Matt says, short nails scratching at the Russian's scalp through suds, "is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. I don't want to be seen as evil."

"Oh, psh," Vladimir scoffs. "Thank you, Socrates."

"Aristotle," the lawyer smiles.

"Well, Aristotle, I don't mean terrible fear from things hunting you," Vladimir says, resisting a yawn. "Fear grounds you, makes you human. Those people that are so powerful and protected, like Fisk, have nothing to fear. Think they have nothing to fear. Now, they have you."

Matt presses his lips into a firm line, unhappy with the discussion. He ends it by emptying the rest of the pitcher over Vladimir's head.

"I'll get you some more clothes," the American says. "Drain the water. I'll be right back."

Vladimir huffs so the damp locks stuck to his forehead flutter up, only to fall back. He peels off the bandage to check the stitched up wound, discarding the tape and cloth over the side of the tub. Duller spots of regular skin mottle the angry red of the burn-induced scar tissue. Pink lines the precise incision that freed the bullet, sutures holding strong. It's bordered by amateur tattoo work and other old wounds, but is clearly the standout of the scar-show. The burn has jagged edges, fencing a rough, uneven expanse that's as big as his palm. Gone purplish in spots from the cold water, it looks like a bleached supernova.

The pain of it is a distant memory; an echo of chemical fire scorching over an open wound, frying blood and melting skin. Vladimir cringes as he rises, clambering from the tub and snatching up the towel laid out for him. The usual uneasiness of this stasis – trapped in this cocoon of healing, barely capable of moving by himself, confined to this apartment for safety – presses at the edges of his mind.

Matt returns holding plain clothes that he leaves on the vanity, while the song on the radio fades away. A calmer one replaces it, and when Matt offers a smile, Vladimir smiles back.

"Remind me why we're meeting this guy at an overpriced café in the Theatre District?" Matt says, fingertips tapping against his cane.

"What, are you jumpy about being out of the Kitchen? Out of the Kitchen and into the… Theatre? That doesn't sound right," Foggy trails off. He regains focus after a beat, with a flick of his hair. "Anyway, neutral ground. Neutral ground is always a good idea. Just you wait."

"I thought a home game advantage was better than neutral ground," Matt says, inclining his head as he listens. The lawyers sit at a tall table, Matt's feet only brushing the ground, thanks to the towering stools. Foggy's legs knock idly against the metal stool leg, unable to reach the timber floorboards below.

"Yeah, well, maybe not when your home game is a three-room office space with a suspicious black spots on the skirting board by the front door. Not to mention the dubious cracks in the walls," Foggy says.

"There is no _black mould_ in the office, Foggy, c'mon."

"True. It's probably just… spilt coffee," Foggy doesn't sound so sure.

"Or, shoe polish?"

"Maybe."

It is. Transferred from a rag, attempting to clean up spilt paint and instead adding polish to the eggshell walls.

"Oh, heads up. I think it's him," Foggy says, sitting up straighter.

Matt hones in his focus on the passerby that slows by the door, walking in with a clumsily confident gait. Briefcase in hand, empty save for a few papers. Expensive clothes, but he subsists on cheap food; dodgy takeout and plain sandwiches.

"Seersucker," Foggy whispers.

Matt nods gravely. Foggy waves at the man – Rothschild, or something – but doesn't step off the stool.

"Hey, fellow lawyers," Rothschild says, snatching a spare seat from a neighbouring table, spinning it into place across from the pair. He rests back to sit on the chair, towering height allowing him to keep both feet flat on the floor.

"Um yes, hello," Foggy says. "Uh, Nelson, Murdock. Rothschild?" he gestures around the occupants of the table.

"Trevor, please," Rothschild says, dumping his briefcase on the table, now-free hands adjusting the lapels of his blazer.

"Right," Matt says, teeth clicking at the harshness of the 't'. "We understand you represent-"

"Sharma and Yates," Trevor says, pronouncing each syllable with effort. "Oh, you meant the client, hah," he says, speed ramping up to a rush. "Yes, Mr. James Hext, he- well. I get what you guys are gunning for; fifty-fifty on the apartment, with the girlfriend getting the apartment, paying the fifty. Not happening, let me tell you. You have no case for that." Trevor gestures wildly while speaking, then slams his palms down on the table.

Matt raises his eyebrows behind his glasses, but doesn't speak. Foggy leans back as if forced from the impact – the sound of the table-assault has made several patrons turns to them – but doesn't sputter.

"Actually, we do have a case for Ms. Bradshaw keeping the apartment and paying less than fifty. She paid the majority of the down payment, as well as mortgage repayments," Foggy says.

Trevor laughs; a giggle that snowballs into a belly laugh. "Oh, no. Even in the last few months, Mr. Hext has done extensive work to the apartment. Plastering up holes in walls, installing new appliances like the washing machine and dryer, and painting the entire indoors," Trevor says, trailing a finger along the edge of the table, thumb rubbing at the non-existent dirt he's collected. "Sixty-forty, Mr. Hext gets the apartment, and Ms. Bradshaw can be reimbursed for the payments she made for the property. That's all we're able to offer."

"We understand the baseline is fifty-fifty," Matt says. "We also understand that Mr. Hext has contributed somewhat to the property, so it's rational that he gets a share of it. The contract said equal contribution in payments, which Mr. Hext did not meet, in recent months."

"Aha, but he worked on the apartment," Trevor repeats, raising a hand.

"Also, how many of those improvements would you say are over the five hundred dollar limit set in the contract?" Foggy says. "Where, any costing greater than five hundred has to be mutually consented to, with each tenant paying half of the cost."

Trevor's laugh is more uncomfortable than amused, this time. "Please, that contract- it's amateur, at best. It's-"

"Sparse. We know. We didn't write it," Foggy says.

Matt fakes a smile, "It covers the basics, and it's been notarised."

Trevor gnaws on his lower lip, face contorting and an embarrassed heat gathering at his ears. "Sadly, it doesn't cover what happens when both of them want the property," he says. "Clause four has the outcomes of one of them wanting it, or none of them. They agreed on those, signed and everything."

"Unless your client would like to review his claim to want the property, that's not relevant," Foggy says, pushing the briefcase back at Rothschild.

"Alright. Well," Trevor mutters. "We shall, uh, review what you've said, with our client, and we'll be in touch."

"We look forward to it," Matt says with a professional smile.

Foggy waits until Trevor is out of the café to speak.

"He's gone," the blond says, adjusting the hair that's been threatening his vision for several minutes – he's been blinking more than usual, but only brushing the wayward locks.

"He's talking on the phone, right?" Matt asks.

"Yeah. How did you-? Your hearing, I swear," Foggy sighs. "You can't hear what he's saying, can you?"

It's muffled by the door, and fading with distance, but Trevor isn't being quiet.

"You said they were- they'd be nervous idiots, or something.… Well, new or not, they seem to know enough to get by," Rothschild hisses into his smart-phone.

"Nope," Matt says. "Didn't sound happy, though. What was he expecting?"

"Pushovers, I guess. But, here we go; proving those douchebags wrong, one meeting at a time. We might have to get an arbitrator to hear both sides, at this rate," Foggy says, stomach rumbling. "Ugh, it's about lunch time, isn't it? What do you say, get take out and go back to the office, get some for Karen?"

Matt shifts in his seat, grip on his cane loosening. "I, uh," he mumbles, "no, thanks, I'd better go home. My friend…"

"Aw, but if he's staying, you have breakfast and dinner together, right? C'mon," Foggy reasons, disappointed.

"I…" the vigilante fills the silence, the beats of consideration, with an extended hum. Maybe he should tell Foggy everything – about the crime fighting, about Fisk… about Vladimir. Foggy and Karen are investigating Union Allied, with the help of Ben Urich, after all. Nothing can stay a secret forever; and it's best to volunteer information rather than have someone find out at an inopportune time. Foggy finding Matt after a patrol, beaten and bloodied, or worse, Matt getting caught by the cops…

Matt never wanted to involve Foggy in this. Not really. Their dynamic will change, warp, even snap. Matt wouldn't blame Foggy if he walked away. But Foggy and Karen have gotten themselves in this mess, investigating Tully and Fisk and the rest of the organisation.

The connections form a messy web in Matt's mind, tugging at heartstrings and straining at weak points, at nonsensical events and actions of others. He cares about Foggy, he really does, but he can't protect him from what he deserves to know. What he's one slip-up away from finding out.

"You okay?" Foggy asks, and the earnest, concerned tone causes something to snap in the web.

Step one is to rectify the gap in information; to tell Foggy everything. Karen can wait. Vladimir can deal if he disagrees with telling Foggy. This is Matt's decision.

He clears his throat and offers a smile. "How about you come over for dinner? I can introduce you two," he says.

Foggy's heart rate increases in excitement. "Really? Awesome. Finally," he says. "I'm glad. I'm smiling, by the way."

"I owe it to you. You're my best friend. You don't deserve to have secrets kept from you."

"Wise words, Matt. Wait, does he know about me? Because I know _nothing_ about him. I mean, I heard him yell at you over the phone, but that's about it."

Matt chuckles, nerves easing, slightly. "He doesn't even know your name," he says. "I'd better go. See you back at the office." He jumps off the chair, keeping up the smile as he steps away.

"Hey! I don't even know his name, either," Foggy protests.

The brunet shrugs and raises both arms, shaking his head.

"Fine then, Murdock, be all mysterious. I'll start guessing, if you don't tell me," Foggy hollers and raises a threatening fist.

"I'm already out the door," Matt says, turning his back on his best friend and walking out the door. He extends the cane once he reaches the sidewalk, dodging a couple with a stroller before tapping away.

Foggy laughs, still inside the café, but doesn't guess. A bubble of hope swells in Matt's chest as he thinks that perhaps this might all work out, somehow.

Upon waking, the world seems too soft. The sun has calmed down, brightness marred by cloud cover. Warm, new fabric presses against his arms and neck, encapsulating his feet where they brush the far arm of the sofa. The clean-shaven skin of his jaw nuzzles the pillow under his head as he wriggles awake.

It's no longer disorienting to wake and have no sense of time. No phone nearby to check, no clock upon any wall. No one to ask for the hour. He mumbles about the lack of time-telling, in English, out of habit thanks to the location's primary inhabitant.

Vladimir stretches, shoulders pivoting to extend his arms over the edge of the couch, pulses of pain skittering along half-asleep nerves from his right wrist. The scar tissue resists the stretch, but not too much. Not enough to tear or cause any more pain than what already dully echoes through him.

He relaxes, dragging his left hand over his face, ring finger brushing the scar. The criminal takes a deep breath. Looking in the mirror this morning was the first time he'd seen his reflection, in more than a passing moment, for a week. Hair greasy, skin pallid, but the circles under his eyes had faded since last time he checked. With all the sleep he's getting, one would hope there'd be no dark circles.

And now he feels different. Knows his reflection would be different. Hair washed, stubble – patchy from tiny scars and divided by the large one – gone, awake at a reasonable hour. It has to be near midday, now, not sunrise. Whatever ungodly hour Matt woke him at for the bath.

The blond yawns, knuckles pressing against his neck as he pushes at the blanket with his elbows.

"It's half past one, if you really want to know," a voice says from somewhere to Vladimir's left.

Vladimir almost falls on the couch in his flailing, arms pushing the blanket off, until Matt wanders into view, an amused smile on his face. Vladimir sighs bitterly at being startled by Matt's sneakiness, not for the first time.

The criminal lets his head fall back, sinking into the pillow with a huff. He tries to ignore how soft his hair is by sending a glare across the room.

"Good afternoon," he says.

Matt inclines his head in a half-nod, not losing the smile.

"You brought food?"

"I did. I already ate, while your were sleeping. And, I have to go back soon," Matt says, traipsing to the far armchair and taking a seat. He nods to the paper bag on the table that smells like salt.

Vladimir struggles upright and crosses his legs, then settles back against the sofa once more. "Should have woken me up."

Matt's smile weakens, features threatening a frown that doesn't quite manifest. "I have some things to talk about," he says, leaning forward so each of his elbows rests on a knee. "I think I should really to tell my friend, about all this," Matt says.

Vladimir hums in question, not quite sure what Matt is talking about.

"About you… Us…? You," the lawyer amends.

Vladimir sighs, though he feels like he has no breath at all. "Which friend? Thought you had two," he says.

"Three. I count you, believe it or not."

"And this friend is who?" Vladimir asks, brain on autopilot.

"Foggy."

"That's not a name. Now you're just being a fool," the criminal turns away to look out the window, shoulders slouching.

"No, really. His real name is Franklin. 'Foggy' is a nickname."

"It's no improvement," Vladimir says, but he doesn't look back. He grabs the blanket from where it fell from his pyjama-clad shoulders in the kerfuffle to sit upright, drawing it back up to be draped around him.

"It grows on you," Matt says quietly.

"So," Vladimir addresses the clouds outside that threaten rain, "how will you tell him?"

Matt sighs in relief. "I invited him over, this evening," he says, sounding sheepish.

"And you will explain?" Vladimir hums.

"I'll explain," the vigilante agrees.

It's reassuring to know that Matt cares about his few friends – or one of them, at least. The first drops of rain begin to fall, occasional patters against the wide windows and the sidewalk far below. Vladimir breathes deeply, soaking in the scent that follows rain as it wafts in through a _fortochka_ at the top of the near window.

He trusts Matt. He does. So all he has to do is trust that Matt's friend isn't a crazy person who will babble to the media, or the cops. Regardless, it's Matt's choice to tell him or not. Best-case scenario, the friend – Foggy, that's right – is understanding of Matt's situation, and doesn't insist they turn Vladimir in. Matt himself is wonderful. Interesting, clever, loyal, righteous… and for whatever reason, he's thrown his lot in with Vladimir's. Or, invited the reverse.

"Okay," he whispers as the rain picks up strength, audibly pattering against the window pane.

"You know I can't see?" Matt pipes up.

"Yes," Vladimir says, frowning.

The couch dips where the lawyer takes a seat, a foot away. "I can get a better impression of what people look like if I touch their face; I can feel their facial features and get an impression," he says.

Vladimir turns his head slightly, just enough to get Matt in his peripheral vision.

"Can I-" Matt says, pausing to clear his throat, "can I touch your face?"

"Yes." _Though you may not like you find_ , he thinks.

Matt's face lights up behind his glasses, close to a grin. He beckons with both hands and Vladimir shuffles closer, fully facing him. "You have to close your eyes."

"Take off your glasses," Vladimir counters.

The American concedes, placing the spectacles on the coffee table. He shifts closer, a knee knocking against a blanket-covered leg. He raises his hands to press against the sides of Vladimir's jaw, skin cold from the weather meeting warm.

Vladimir closes his eyes. Matt's fingertips skitter over his face, not pressing, but never leaving. Taking stock of the lower half on his face, unflinching over the most obvious scar.

After a minute, Vladimir opens his eyes, blinking as Matt continues to ghost along his brow. Matt appears engrossed, unseeing gaze focused on his target of concentration, but not quite frowning. A thumb catches on Vladimir's lower lip and something sparks off in his brain. After a blink, Matt's moved on, skating over cheekbones and holding there, gauging distance, or something.

He can't bear to close his eyes after he's opened them again. To see the tones of those rich brown irises, wide eyes framed by dark lashes, scant inches from his own restless eyelids. This close, Vladimir thinks he gets an idea of what Matt senses; hearing others' breathing, the heat radiating off his skin…

Until a fingertip goes sailing into sclera. Vladimir recoils, saline rushing to well at the inner corner of his left eye. Matt's hands flinch away, surprised and distressed.

"Hey!" Vladimir says, freeing a hand from the childish blanket to rub at his eye with a fist.

"I said 'close your eyes', Vladimir," Matt chides, peering closer to inspect the leaking eye.

"Was taking too long," the criminal barks, dropping his hand.

"You're fine," Matt insists. "Just another minute."

Vladimir breathes through his mouth, slow and deliberate. Another minute, that's all. He closes his eyes again, and nods. Matt's hands don't linger this time, not as much. After what feels like mere moments of brushing over eyelids and tracing Vladimir's hairline, the lawyer drops his hands and leans back.

"Well, what is your verdict?" Vladimir asks, scrunching his aching eye closed and opening the other one, wary.

"Verdict?" Matt considers this, picking up his glasses and setting them back over his eyes. "In conclusion, you do in fact have a face," he nods and stands.

Vladimir frowns. "And?"

"Are you fishing for compliments?"

"What fish?"

Matt's head lolls to the side in exasperation. "I don't know what you look like, I just have a better idea," he says, adjusting his suit jacket and walking off. He grabs his bag from the floor by hallway and collects his keys off the sideboard. He cracks his neck, and turns to leave.

It feels like too much of a glimpse. Vladimir knows he's seen Matt all week, monopolising almost all the time that he isn't at work. But it's scarcely been ten minutes; a few more seconds can't hurt.

"I know you wonder about the scar," the blond says, not raising his voice. "I got it while in a prison- the last one before coming to America." He uncrosses his legs and stretches out, kicking the blanket to make room.

Matt pauses by the wall that cuts off the hallway. "It didn't heal properly," he guesses.

Vladimir gives a half-hearted shrug. "Does not hurt anymore," he says. "And it did not hurt my eye, at least. Unlike you."

Matt chuckles, and says, "Ruined your shot at prom queen, though."

With one man dressed in a suit, with his hair all neat and a tie in a perfect knot, and the other swaddled in a childish blanket, there's no question in who would fare better in a bid for homecoming royalty.

"See you later," Matt says, echoing footsteps quiet in the sound of the falling rain. Vladimir forgets to answer straight away, knocked out of his thoughts when the door closes and locks.

"Bye," he calls.

Later. 'Later' is meeting Matt's friend, Foggy and telling him about the Man in the Mask, and Fisk's organisation. Later is uncertain and ominous, its outcomes numerous and varying.

But, no. Vladimir has faith in Matt, in his choices. It's not misplaced, or misguided. He's accepted things can go wrong – something always does. It won't be Matt's fault. If anyone will be to blame for a sour end, it will be Vladimir. To say something too mean or aggressive, or to be on the wrong side of the law. Matt said he works with Foggy, so he must be another lawyer; he might not be so understanding, when it comes to crime. Vladimir can only hope that it will turn out fine, or else, that Matt will forgive him.

* * *

Russian:

radiostantsiya / радиостанция ~ radio station  
ostavlyáesh / оставля́ешь ~ leave  
fortochka / форточка ~ window leaf ('a small ventilation window'. I'm pretty sure the windows have these?)

Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	12. The Blood of the Covenant

A/N: This chapter lives up to the T rating of the story because of swearing, so please pay heed to that.

* * *

For once, Vladimir hears people outside the apartment before they barge in and scare him half to death. He'd hoped if it were only to happen once, it wouldn't be for some loony who's whisper-shouting excitedly in the corridor.

Vladimir frowns and pushes off the couch to stand, teeth gritted in concentration. He can walk. He can, really. Each step is an effort as he staggers from the sofa to the wall that divides the front door from the rest of the living area. He leans his forehead against the plaster and paint, sucking in deep breaths. One hand grips the edge of the wall far too tight, less steadying and more trying to hang on.

Matt opens the door before Vladimir can hobble over there. The criminal manages a smile in greeting. Matt's expression turns concerned as he makes an aborted step forward, hesitating on the threshold.

"Hello," Vladimir greets the man who must be Foggy – average height, unremarkable build, with shaggy blond hair and wearing a navy-blue suit.

Foggy's genuine smile withers, eyes going wide as he walks into the apartment. "Uh, hi?"

Vladimir realises how he must look; arms littered with tattoos and scars, leaning on a wall to stay upright, and forcing a smile. Not the epitome of friendliness, at least. Matt walks over, leaving his cane against the sideboard and raising an arm.

"You shouldn't be walking," he explains as he loops the arm around Vladimir's back, hoisting him up from a slouch.

Vladimir rolls his eyes but walks along as Matt leads him back to the sofa. "I can walk," he says. A clap of thunder sounds as if to disagree.

"The weather begs to differ," Foggy laughs, hovering awkwardly in the space between the corridor and the rug.

Vladimir scowls at the coffee table; he doesn't appreciate being mocked by someone he's supposed to be extra-nice to. He expects Matt to move away – for the lawyers to each occupy an armchair, somewhat like an interrogation – but instead he sits close by on the couch. Offended at the invasion of his domain, or confused at why Matt would stay like this, the couch-gremlin elbows Matt in the ribs.

"Sit up straight," the brunet grouses and knocks his right shoulder against Vladimir's left. With a sigh, Vladimir adjusts his posture. He looks away from Matt to check where the friend is – Foggy, what a stupid nickname – and finds him staring at the exchange.

"Nice blanket," Foggy says from where he's finally sat in the armchair by the window.

Vladimir tries not to glower as he nods in acknowledgement. Foggy seems nice. Vladimir knows people are often not as they seem. The criminal lets his head fall back to look down his nose at the near-stranger, thinking. Foggy isn't overconfident, or strikingly insecure. Whatever good looks he might have – upon scrubbing up, perhaps – pale in comparison to Matt's handsome features. Vladimir decides on his first impression of Matt's best friend; a sidekick.

Foggy settles back in the ugly brown-orange armchair. He offers another smile and breathes in as if to talk.

"So-" he tries. But to be the one asking the questions means having better control of the situation. If this will go anywhere close to how Vladimir hopes, he has to be in control.

"How did you meet Matt?" the criminal asks, still leant back, breathing slow and deliberate.

Foggy laughs and shifts, uncomfortable. "I, uh, I was just gonna ask you that. We met in college," he says, gesturing to the other lawyer, "we were roommates from freshman year, and then all the way through. Long story short, we did an internship at the same law firm, and now we own our own firm. So, how'd you two meet?"

Vladimir figures since Matt said nothing about lying, he ought to tell the truth. He sighs. "We met about a week ago. Night of the explosions."

"Oh," Foggy says, blinking in surprise. "But, you've only been staying here for like a week, right?"

"Yes."

Foggy shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I don't want to jump to conclusions, but one-word answers aren't gonna cut it. Were you hurt and Matt took you in?"

"Yes." Vladimir stifles a grin at Foggy's expectant look. Foggy waits patiently, probably reasoning that the Russian has to think over his back-story.

"Shouldn't you still be in the hospital? Y'know, since you can't _walk_ yet," Foggy says.

"I can walk," Vladimir says, allowing his accent to be heavier than usual so he can bide time to consider his words. "And, we did not go to the hospital," he says and knocks his knee against Matt's. "Police shot me. The hospital was not the best idea."

"What?" Foggy whispers.

Matt clears his throat, "Foggy, Vladimir and his brother owned a business-"

Vladimir snorts and opens his eyes, about to ask Matt what on earth he's doing, lying-

"-in organised crime, providing security and distribution for a drug ring," the brunet concludes, solemn and quiet. Despite the honesty rule, Vladimir is glad he's allowed the omission of the dabbling in human trafficking, for now.

"Worked with the triad and yakuza," Vladimir adds, head tipping forward in a nod. His heart races at the admission - at what Foggy might think of it, might do - and knows Matt can hear it. The vigilante turns his head to the erratic heart and purses his lips.

Foggy inhales, drawing attention back as his eyes widen. "You- you're the Jack of Clubs- Vladimir and Anatoly. You work for the King of Diamonds!" he exclaims, waving a hand but not quite pointing.

The criminal turns to Matt and says, "I don't know this metaphor." Matt smirks; Vladimir thinks it would be a laugh if the situation weren't so dire.

Foggy waves both hands and shakes his head, 'no'. "It's not a metaphor. There's a board with playing cards that Karen made with Ben Urich that connects all of this. And you- you work for him," he concludes, pointing at the accused Jack of Clubs.

Anger flares like a match struck, fuelling annoyance and bitterness that Vladimir has to concentrate to tamp down. "No," he draws out the word, over-enunciating the 'o'. "It was a group agreement, I worked for no-one." If Foggy thinks Vladimir is so terrible, he probably shouldn't be giving up the names of the others investigating the organisation. He's heard about the reporter, from Matt mentioning an intention to talk with him, but Foggy doesn't know that. Vladimir wonders whether Matt knows that his best friend and business partner is an idiot.

"Wait, then-" Foggy shakes his head again, shaggy blond hair swishing. "What were you doing, Matt, wandering the streets when you found this guy who somehow got shot, but not to death?" He looks hopeful, as if there's an explanation he can't quite grasp; a reality where Matt isn't the Man in the Mask.

"No, I… I'd been investigating Vladimir and Anatoly's mob, Fisk's setup. Wilson Fisk is the, uh, King of Diamonds. I talk to lackeys, try to get information," Matt says, shifting his posture.

"What?" Foggy sputters, "That's exactly what you told me and Karen _not_ to do!"

"I know, but no-one knows it's me," Matt says, tone something close to placating. "I wear a mask, when I go."

"A mask?" Foggy asks, short of breath. "A ma-? Oh, God, no. You're messing with me," he laughs, "this isn't- that's not true. You can't be, you're blind, and you're a lawyer, you are _not_ the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Matt, you're not. This isn't funny."

Matt regards his best friend with a disappointed expression, forlorn at not being believed. "I'm not joking," he says.

Vladimir understands it might be a bit of a shock, but it's not an insult to be the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. The name is a bit melodramatic, but the vigilante's formidable repertoire of fighting skills and sheer determination are anything but. Being on opposing sides had been difficult. One man in a mask has been conquering impossible odds; taking out barrelfuls of armed lackeys, stopping petty crimes, and knowing too much and not getting shot for it. Now that they're on the same side – now that he knows Matt didn't murder Anatoly – Vladimir respects the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"You," Foggy points at Vladimir, "no, it's you. You're blackmailing Matt into taking the fall for your shit, for running around in a mask and punching people. That's why no-one's seen the Devil of Hell's Kitchen in a week, because you got shot. Matt, you visited Ben Urich and he showed you the board, and you picked one of the people for this guy to pretend to be. So, nice try at an accent, 'Vladimir', whatever your real name is."

Vladimir huffs. "You are being ridiculous," he says, muttering less-kindly names in Russian.

"You're being unreasonable," Matt amends, shoulder nudging the criminal's.

"Me?" Foggy squawks and stands abruptly from the armchair. "You're the one trying to tell me that you're the- that crazy vigilante running around. You're blind, Matt. Aren't you?"

The brunet nods. "Yes, but the rest of my senses… because of the nature of the accident – the chemicals that no-one seems to know the exact makeup of – everything else went overboard. I can hear your breathing, the couple arguing downstairs, a stroller's wheels against the sidewalk. When I listen. I can smell every ingredient in a dish. My skin, even, I… when people and other things move, it displaces air, bodies spread heat, and I can feel all that.

"Normally everything is fuzzy or indistinct; the sensations… but over the years, I've learned to concentrate. To let in just my close surroundings. I can't see, no light perception, whatsoever. But the way everything moves, temperature and scents and movements, it's all in shades of red, in my mind. Like a world on fire."

Foggy looks at his shoes, stepping back to the edge of the rug. He regards the two couch-dwellers with a frustrated expression, hands on hips.

"Before the Incident, I would've been out that door," he says, nodding to the exit. "What do you hear, right now? What can you tell?"

Matt takes a deep breath. "Do you want to hear about you?"

"Knock yourself out," Foggy says with a sniff.

"You're well-rested, but you still had a cup of coffee before coming into the office, and three since then. You haven't washed your hair in a few days, but you've been showering every morning. Breakfast was leftover curry. You've got the beginnings of a strain of the common cold, affecting your breathing," Matt pauses, head cocked to the side, deliberately listening. "And your heart is beating faster the more that I say."

Foggy winces, frown deepening and hands falling by his sides. "You can hear a heartbeat?" he whispers. "From across the room?"

Matt nods.

"But, through someone's body, how can you hear that well?"

Vladimir presses his right knuckles to his mouth and clears his throat. "People are just flesh and bone. No stronger than a wall," he says. It's simple; Vladimir has seen knives slice apart tissue, bullets punch through skulls and kneecaps, knuckles, lips, and eyebrows split, and corpses rot. He doubts Foggy will ever have to see any of that.

"Okay, one, weird comparison; now I'm just imagining a wall made from people," Foggy says, raising a hand to ward off the image. "Two, isn't that strange? Listening to heartbeats all the time, it sounds… unsettling," he shudders.

"Unless I concentrate, I can only hear the ones close by; in the same room, usually."

"And it's unnerving?" Foggy asks, hopeful expression falling at the lack of an immediate agreement.

Matt shifts, not wanting to answer. "Depends. Right now, yes, because your heartbeat is all over the place, and Vladimir's isn't much better. But normally, it's comforting. At least, just to hear that two of the people I care about are alive and well."

Foggy looks at his best friend with disbelief. "Him?" he says. "Mister Jack of Clubs, crime lord, who you found shot in the street?"

"Yes, him," the brunet says, expression studiously neutral.

"Fine," Foggy snaps, "fine, fine, fine. Whatever. But, can't you block out heartbeats, then? Other people's or when they're 'all over the place'."

"It helps to anticipate behaviour," Matt says, pausing to wet his lips. "When someone's gonna attack, or when they're lying."

"You can hear lies? So, that's how you knew Karen was telling the truth, when we first met her at the precinct."

"Karen is other friend?" Vladimir whispers.

"Yeah," Matt answers both questions.

Foggy sputters, waving his hands to ward off the implications. "You listened to her heartbeat without her permission? We're lawyers! You can't do that! There's a system in place, and it's weird and invasive and-"

Vladimir follows Foggy's slight pacing around this section of the apartment, fluttering in circles more like a distressed bird than anything else. It's almost amusing.

Foggy stops again by the armchair, gear whirring in his brain. "Wait. Are you telling me that since I've known you, any time I wasn't telling the truth, you knew? And what, you just played along?" he asks.

"Basically," Matt admits.

Foggy's eyes narrow at the vigilante, enraged and betrayed. The clench of his fists and flare of his nostrils show more frustration than his facial expression. "If I could, I would kick your ass, Murdock. Am I lying about that?" he snaps.

"No."

"Was anything ever real with us?"

Matt's face screws up more with each offended, disbelieving breath from Foggy. Vladimir's chest grows cold; it _is_ his fault. He's a fugitive that's convinced Matt to trust him. An intruder who can never be welcome.

A hand prods at his own; he looks down to see Matt about to draw away, regretting the action. Vladimir's left hand grabs Matt's retreating right, twisting his uninjured wrist to interlock their fingers. The brunet's hand is clammy but warm, and squeezes back with a tremor.

Foggy doesn't notice, having begun pacing around to quell his temper tantrum once more. "That news footage of you, in the alley, after the bombings; the way you were flipping around… Your dad was a boxer. He didn't teach you any of that stuff, did he?" he says.

"He didn't want me to fight. You know that," Matt says. He takes off his glasses with his free hand and goes on in a quiet tone, explaining how Stick found him at the orphanage and taught him to fight. How the mentor taught Matt to use his abilities. How he was left alone, again.

"So," Foggy reasons, "you can see."

"That's not- you're not- Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, world on fire, I got it. But you _can_ see, right?"

"Yeah, in a manner of speaking. But I-"

"No! No manner! How many fingers am I holding up?" Foggy takes a step towards the pair and flips off the vigilante.

Vladimir bristles at the gesture, entwined hand tensing.

The brunet sighs, "One."

Foggy drops his hand, distraught, and retreats to the armchair, head cradled in his hands. "All these years, I actually felt sorry for you."

"I didn't ask for-" Matt begins.

Vladimir had been sure he'd stick to niceties. Be patient, to try to keep a handle on the situation, yet not commandeer it. But this isn't like the confrontation with Stick; Foggy is supposed to be a friend, and friends are supposed to support each other. If Foggy won't be a friend for Matt, Vladimir will.

"What?" Vladimir spits. "Why are you sorry? Because he's blind? And what, you feel sorry because 'he cannot see sunsets or paintings'? Fuck you. Matt is a better person than you could ever be. Does not disown his best friend for telling him the truth."

"The truth?" Foggy says, zeroing in on the least-important part of the point the Russian was trying to make. "He's lied to me for years! You don't know anything, you've known him for a week! I thought-" Foggy looks to Matt, "I thought we were friends."

"We are," Matt insists.

Foggy shakes his head. "You've lied to me, Matt, since the day we met."

"What did you expect me to say, Foggy?" the vigilante scoffs. "'Hi, I'm Matt. I got some chemicals splashed in my eyes when I was a kid that gave me heightened senses.'"

"Well, maybe not lead with that."

"I didn't even tell my dad after it happened."

"But you told _him_ , obviously," Foggy nods to the criminal with distaste.

"Because I didn't have a choice, considering I met him while out investigating, and he was trying to kill me," Matt says, exasperated. "For a brief period."

Vladimir chimes in, "It was a misunderstanding."

Foggy ignores him and speaks instead to Matt. "Did you blow up those buildings? Shoot those cops?"

"You really even need to ask that?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

"It was- Fisk. It was all Fisk. I was outside the warehouse Vladimir was in when the bombs went off. I found him trying to escape, but so did three corrupt cops. I stopped them from killing us, but they shot him. We went to a, an abandoned warehouse so I could stop the bleeding. The floor gave way and…" Matt pauses to take in a shaky breath.

Vladimir squeezes his hand. "I died," he says, absentmindedly astonished that that's something he can say, now. "Heart stopped. Matt hit it until it changed its mind."

The vigilante huffs a laugh. "We got out through access tunnels, but a squad of Fisk's pseudo-SWAT guys caught up," he says, laughter dying. "Vladimir was going to stay and hold them back, with a gun I'd swiped from one of them, while I got away. I jammed a door with the gun instead. Made it back here. I called a nurse that's been helping me, but it wasn't going to be enough to save him. The nurse knew a doctor with a less-than-legal home surgery. Cut to one week later," Matt gestures to his newer friend with his free hand. "Here we are."

"Here-?" Foggy echoes, exasperated. "What are you doing, Matt? You're a lawyer. You're supposed to be helping people, good people."

"I am."

"In a mask! Do you know what they call that? A vigilante. Someone who acts outside of the law. It's not enough playing judge and jury? You gotta add executioner to the list?"

"I've never gone that far, killing someone. The rest of it… I don't think I have a choice," Matt says. He tells the same story he told Vladimir a few nights ago; of a man who preyed upon his daughter, who the authorities couldn't nab, who Matt beat to a pulp.

Now that his head is clear, not half-asleep or rattled with pain, Vladimir wants to ask more questions about it. To pick Matt's brain about how he tracked the man down, sure, but to ask him how it felt to deliver that kind of justice for the first time. Vladimir has been in many fights – practice spars, drunken brawls, organised matches, interrogations. Teaching people lessons, sure, but not in the same way. Not seeking out a monster, exacting revenge for someone who can't do it alone. Maybe Vladimir has just never had the patience for people who can't defend themselves. Not since getting into organised crime, anyway.

"You say all this, like one day you'd just had it with how things are," Foggy says after a minute of thoughts of his own. "But to do what you do, you had to keep training, all those years since that Stick guy, knowing you would do something like this. Maybe it isn't only about justice, Matt. Maybe it's about you having an excuse to hit someone. Maybe you just can't stop yourself."

"I don't want to stop," Matt says, scarily calm. Vladimir is definitely asking about it, then, once Foggy has left. Luckily, Foggy seems to interpret this as a penchant for justice rather than violence. Vladimir is sure it's a mix of the two. He saw the compound fractures, bloody grazes, and technicolour bruises on his lackeys after they'd kidnapped Claire. Semyon's shattered limbs, the damaged trigeminal nerve… somewhat deserved, perhaps, but not the kind of justice Matt's implying.

Unease claws at Vladimir throat as he realises that it was only with both the dumpster-fall and epinephrine that Semyon died. Vladimir might've delivered the chemical that induced heart failure, but Matt must've known that throwing the lackey off the roof could have killed him. That he could die from his injuries or get taken off life support. Maybe Matt got too angry. Maybe he's lying about never wanting to kill someone. Vladimir intends to find out.

Foggy makes a frustrated noise that's close to a whine. "What happened to all that talk about going after him through the system? Making the law work for us?"

"Sometimes the law isn't enough," Matt says, solemn, words almost drowned out by the downpour outside.

Vladimir reiterates, "When Fisk owns part of the police, the law cannot help, you _must_ work around it."

"Shut the fuck up!" Foggy yells, face becoming splotched pink with rage. "You know absolutely nothing about Matt, or me, or fucking anything! Matt should've left you in those tunnels."

Vladimir recoils. Normally he'd be spitting with fury and go in for a punch, knock out a few of the other guy's teeth. Instead, his heart sinks.

Foggy blinks, realising what he just said and whom he just said it to. He's looking at the scar, for sure. "I," he says, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

But Vladimir has heard enough. He shakes his hand free from Matt's and pushes off the sofa to stand.

"Vladimir, wait–" the vigilante begins, reaching out.

"I'm going to the roof. You two talk," Vladimir shrugs off the hand on his shoulder and sidesteps its owner. "You have an umbrella?" He'd be content to sit in the rain without one, if it wouldn't sabotage the gunshot wound.

Matt nods, and is lost from the criminal's vision when he turns away. He loses time, hobbling to the staircase. Can walk? Check. Can walk efficiently? Working on it. His legs feel weak from a lack of use, and the skin of his torso strains against the stitches, the scar tissue.

The brunet reappears after some audible rifling through the cupboard by the fire hose reel, by the edge of the staircase. "You don't have to go," he says quietly.

Vladimir takes the umbrella, blue eyes searching unseeing brown. Matt's gaze flits around as his focus must do; to heart, lungs, and pulse points, before settling to observe the Russian's mouth as he speaks.

"Foggy is your best friend. Not an enemy. You talk to him. I cause problems," Vladimir explains.

Matt nods in acknowledgement, though he presses his lips together as though he'd like to disagree further, at least on the last point. No such protest is voiced, sluicing warmth through Vladimir's chest. Now isn't the time for them to bicker.

"I'll check on you, soon. Make sure you haven't fallen in a puddle," the brunet says with a small smile.

"Am smiling back," Vladimir says, lowering his voice. "Whatever happens, you know I will stay. Even if he leaves."

Drops on the windows cast shadows through the billboard's blue light, making Matt's smile a warped kind of picturesque. He nods.

The Russian grips one side of the railing and holds onto the umbrella as he ascends the staircase. Pain echoes with each lumbering step, but he makes it there in one – aching – piece. His free hand settles on the doorknob and looks back over his shoulder. Foggy's expression is purposefully stony, posture poor with stress as he turns away to pace. Matt stands by the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

Vladimir leans forward to rest his head against the door, hearing the rain pattering on the other side, the scent of it permeating the landing. He leaves, door shutting with a click, and opens the umbrella. Skyscrapers smatter grey skies, sparse chimneys puffing away, and cloud glacially swirling by, coughing up their guts as they go.

Gravel crunches underfoot, digging into his bare feet – he always forgets something. He walks on unsteady, out-of-use legs to the closest edge of the roof. Several feet of bricks and mortar rise above the gravel-covered rooftop, which is dotted with a pair of water towers and a few unused flues.

Vladimir sits by the edge, avoiding a puddle that's collected despite the gravel, and leans the handle of the umbrella against his shoulder. Thinking about the problem doesn't help. Not when there's no solution. Vladimir watches the rainfall around him and the clouds swirl over the city, feels each drop hit the wide umbrella. Tries to ignore the dead weight that's settled in his chest, every mistake he's made trying to ensnare his attention.

With a world-weary sigh, he blocks it out, closes his eyes, and listens to the rain do its best to drown out the sounds of the city.

Matt doesn't regret his decision to tell Foggy. Questioning it, maybe, because it's been a mild disaster so far, but he can fix it. Even if the only person on the vigilante's side just resigned himself to the roof, this can still be fixed.

"What the heck was that?" Foggy demands.

"What? Vladimir is going to the roof, probably because he didn't appreciate you screaming in his face about how I should've left him to die."

"Okay, sure, I shouldn't have said _that_. He just- he's unsettling. But that-" he waves at the stairs and then drops his hand, unsure of what to say.

Matt is unsure about 'unsettling'; for all that he can understand it, objectively, he feels the opposite way, now. He might've felt unsettled when he first met Vladimir, all snide comments and wolfish chuckles. And then a timber beam to the temple, answered with a tackle hard enough to crash through floors of warehouse - enough to stop his heart -

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

"That, what?"

"That _interaction_ , or whatever, was… God, I want to say 'tender'? I felt like I was intruding," Foggy shudders.

"So?" Matt asks, aiming for insouciance against the sourness he feels. Being scornful isn't going to help.

"So, he's a crime lord who you've known for less than a week."

"'Crime lord' is a bit dramatic," Matt scoffs. "And, a week of living together is different to meeting sometime a week ago and seeing them once since. It's also not exactly light-hearted to almost die. But, y'know, he would've deserved it, right?" he sneers.

Foggy lets his head fall to one side, probably rolling his eyes. "Again, he's killed people, you haven't?"

"Have you got a point you're trying to prove, there? Vladimir and I are different, but we get along. We're friends. Same with you and I."

"Yeah, you're a super-powered ninja and I'm not a liar."

"I'm not a _ninja_. I've learnt an amalgamation of martial arts; there's a difference. They're not really super-powers, either. More importantly, I'm _telling you now_."

"Now that I might find out some other way?"

"Now that I can…" Matt says, pausing to inhale, to swallow past the lump in his throat. He can't do anything about the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes. "Look, I trust you, Foggy, I have for years. I just thought that this was something to keep to myself, the senses. I just… I know I should've told you years ago. When we graduated, at least. But I was afraid, beyond reason. That you would abandon me, think I'm a freak, or not believe me, or admit me to a psych ward. I knew you wouldn't, but…

"My mom left, I got my dad killed, Stick left, Elektra left. I wasn't used to people staying around; you're still the exception. I couldn't handle losing you, too. So this is me realising that I can't go on doing what I'm doing if you don't know. I can't keep lying to you."

Confession, unresolved, is no salve. Matt feels hollow, frail, like a twig waiting to be snapped. It's not like after a fight, including the ones that are more like being on the receiving end of a beat-down than anything. Everything is too numb, sounds far-off and scents muddled.

Foggy mulls the vigilante's words over with deep breaths. After what seems like full minutes, he sighs, and speaks. "You know, usually when you get emotional, you still sound like a thesaurus. Unless you were drunk, but even then, y'know sometimes you still spoke like an eloquent bastard. Always made me sound like a goofball, anyway," he says, tone reminiscent.

Matt laughs, choked up. He relaxes his posture, unsure of when it became taught, and takes an aborted step toward his best friend.

"I'm glad you told me. I'm just mad about it – what you do – and that it took so freaking long for you to tell me," Foggy says. "You just… can you promise me that this is it? No more secrets?"

"Of course," Matt says.

Foggy hasn't relaxed, not as much. He has his arms folded, shoulders hunched in on himself, heartbeat uneasy. It's too much to process; Matt understands that. Revealing his powers and his vigilante activities will snap Foggy's perception of the situation into focus. It won't- it doesn't change _everything_. They're still best friends, still maintained that through the better part of a decade. Things won't fall apart. Their friendship is stronger than that. Foggy is stronger than that.

But, that's if he decides to continue the friendship. If he gives Matt this second chance, believes him, forgives the lies, works through the differing stance on being a vigilante. They're teetering towards the positive outcome – understanding, reworking this age-old bridge so close to burning down – but Matt knows it will take time, and that it could one-eighty at any moment.

The trill of a ringtone breaks the silence. Foggy startles, then fishes through his pocket to locate the phone.

"It's Karen. You want me to invite her over?" Foggy asks, too drained to sneer. "Since you're all about the truth."

"Not- not right now, Foggy, please," Matt says as he shakes his head. He'd been too caught up in his thoughts to register that a ringing phone meant someone calling – someone on the other line, waiting to talk. He braces for an argument, an annoyed comment.

"Okay," Foggy says, though he doesn't sound happy about it. He taps at the smart-phone's screen to answer the call. "Hey, Karen. You mind if I put you on speaker?"

" _-all good_ ," Karen's says, tinny speakers amplifying her voice. " _I just, I know you're over at Matt's and hanging out with his friend, but I guess Matt might not have a TV, so. I just wanted to tell you guys that Detective Blake has woken up. The cop who got shot the night of the explosions?_ "

"Really? I thought they said he'd be in a coma for at least a month," Foggy comments.

" _Yeah, I know. He hasn't released a statement yet, if he saw anything about who shot him, but I guess it'll be soon. Are you guys okay? You sound a little…_ " Karen trails off.

"We're fine," Foggy says. "Matt's friend is just a bit of a shithead."

" _Oh, uh. Okay_ ," the secretary says, clearly waiting for an explanation or a change of topic.

"Karen," Matt pipes up, "which hospital is Blake in, again?"

" _Metro-General_ ," Karen says, humming – probably scanning the article again. " _It says he's got half a dozen other cops keeping watch outside the room. Y'know, in case whoever shot him comes back for another try_."

"You don't think it was the Mask?" Foggy asks tersely.

Karen's hum turns uneasy. " _I don't want to_ ," she says, statement almost sounding like a question. " _I don't think everything that goes down like this can be blamed on one guy, anyway. Bombings and sniping a cop don't sound like the Man in the Mask. Anyway, now's not the time, right? You guys get back to catching up with Matt's friend. Hi, if you're there_ ," she says weakly.

"He went to the roof, for fresh air," Foggy says.

" _Isn't it bucketing down all over Manhattan?_ " Karen asks, sounding somewhat suspicious.

"Yeah, he's a weirdo," Foggy says – his heartbeat doesn't betray a lie, but Matt thinks he probably has a few stronger, more insulting words in mind.

" _Right. See you later, Foggy, Matt_ ," Karen says.

The lawyers both bid their goodbyes, though the brunet's is a little strained. Detective Christian Blake. Another person with information, another lead to interrogate. But Fisk must know that too, and Matt wouldn't bet on Blake being alive for much longer.

"I- I've got to go," Matt says, tone apologetic. He makes a beeline for the open cupboard, crouching to lift out the old box.

"What, to interrogate Blake?" Foggy asks. "The guy's half-dead, you can't beat him up."

"Yeah, I don't plan on it. I just want to ask him some questions, and make sure Fisk can't get to him first. Fisk organised Blake getting shot, I'm not sure he'll appreciate," the vigilante says, gathering up his gear from the hidden section of the box and replacing the cover. "I have to go."

Foggy doesn't answer. He takes a seat in the armchair once more and rests his chin on one hand, contemplative.

Matt rushes to his bedroom and closes the door. He sheds his jacket, fingers almost fumbling over his tie and shirt buttons in his haste. It _was_ supposed to be a month, if Blake ever woke up at all. But no, the bastard has to wake up at the least convenient time possible, weeks early.

"Wait," Foggy calls through the door, "so you're gonna leave me here with-"

"If you say 'Jack of Clubs' one more time-" Matt begins.

"I was going to call him a gremlin, actually. Matt, you haven't seen his prison tattoos, or that _scar_. I mean, I wouldn't just cross the street if I saw him, I'd catch a cab and never come back to that part of town."

"You're being dramatic again," Matt says, continuing to change clothes. "But you're right that's he's… been through the wringer. And I know what the scar looks like, by the way."

"But, you can't _see_ it?"

"No," Matt says, voice muffled as he dons the new shirt.

"So you-? Oh," his best friend sounds stunned.

Matt hums in response as he laces up the combat boots. He carries the mask with him as he exits the room. Foggy's heartbeat grows nervous, regardless, with a quiet gasp.

"I'll see you later?" the vigilante asks, half-expecting a response of, 'it really is you', or something.

"Yeah. I'll wait," Foggy sighs.

Matt decides that's good enough – more than he expected, anyhow – and takes off, jogging up the stairs. He can't dwell on any of this right now. Get gone, get to the hospital, worry about this mess later. Maybe visit Ben Urich with the information he's compiled, put onto a USB a few days ago.

Through the deluge, it takes Matt a moment to confirm Vladimir is still on the roof. "Aren't you cold?" the brunet asks, settling the mask on now that he's out in the open.

The umbrella hits the gravel as its user flinches. "You're leaving," Vladimir says from the edge of the roof where he set up camp, cross-legged on the gravel.

"For a bit," Matt calls through the roar of the falling rain and the boom of thunder. Despite the conflict, it eases the tension in his chest to hear Vladimir's voice. "Detective Blake woke up. I have to talk to him."

"Okay," Vladimir says, pushing himself off the ground to stand with a pained grunt. "Good. And Foggy?"

"I think he'll come around. He's still in the apartment," Matt reaches the umbrella and picks it up to close it. He offers his other arm to aid the criminal back to the rooftop's doorway.

"Matt, before you go," Vladimir says as he slings an arm over the vigilante's shoulders, "I'm sorry."

Against the cacophony of the rain and the city, Matt almost thinks he heard that wrong. The new phrase, the guilty timbre, the way Vladimir ducks his head as if he doesn't expect an answer.

Matt's expression warps behind the mask, halfway between a cringe and a frown. He's glad for the mask, to hide it. Right arm already wound around Vladimir's back, Matt brings his left to wrap around the blond's torso, gloved fists resting in the middle of ribs.

This close, Matt can hear Vladimir's heart despite the rain, once-dead and now very much alive. It takes a moment, but Vladimir returns the hug, lifting his free arm to curl around the vigilante's back, hands somewhere near his shoulder blades. Warm breath against Matt's right shoulder contrasts the rainwater, no skin making contact thanks to the mask and long sleeves. Matt has never been a fan of hugs, not since his dad died. With a few friends and girlfriends over the years, sure, but apart from Foggy, that's about it. And now, with the stress of the evening, he's literally embracing Vladimir Ranskahov. It's a little bit mind-boggling, but comforting nonetheless.

Vladimir knocks the sides of their heads together. "Time to go," he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the din, despite being so close.

Matt lets go, stepping back so they're side-by-side once more. "You have to take your medicine, and replace the bandages," he says, matching the slower man's steps as the pair trod to the door. "There are leftovers in the fridge for dinner, but I should be back-"

"I will be fine," Vladimir says. "You be careful. Don't get caught."

"I won't," Matt assures him, free hand reaching to push the door open wider. "I'd like you to talk to Foggy, if he's okay with it. Give some perspective." The brunet clears his throat, torn between getting out of here and the cloying worry that urges him to stall. "I'm not asking you to tell him your life's story, but… just chat, maybe? And don't kill each other while I'm gone."

"Yes," the criminal gives the opposite answer to the one Matt expected. "Go," he detaches his arm, immediately diving for the landing's railing. He leans against it to rest, one hand reaching up to card fingers through wet hair.

With a brusque nod, Matt closes the door. He turns on his heel, stalking to his usual exit route of the fire escape, ready to navigate alleyways and backstreets to get to Metro General. Head shaking in an attempt to clear it, he vaults over the edge of the rooftop, boots meeting rust-covered metal. With all this rain, he has to focus. Tune out people in buildings, honking cars, and barking dogs. Allow himself to consume the relevant world, and forget about his friends, for now.


	13. Somewhere on the Outskirts of Hope

"So, that's it?" Foggy asks.

Vladimir rolls his eyes as he throws the umbrella overboard to clatter to the floorboard with a soggy thump. "That's what?" he asks, descending the stairs with one hand on each side of the railing, cold-numb feet protesting the movement.

"Matt just-" Foggy waves to the roof door, "-bounds away, across rooftops?"

"He flies, actually. Like a butterfly," the criminal waves a hand, mimicking fluttering wings.

"Whatever," Foggy snorts, unimpressed. He's half-sitting, half-leaning on the arm of the couch furthest from the window, picking at his jacket sleeve, eyes trained on the cheap fabric.

Vladimir marches on despite labouring breath, exhausted from being awake for hours. He sighs as he reaches the floor, tempted to slump against the bannister and sleep on the floor.

"You get rained on?" the American pipes up.

"No," Vladimir says, though he plucks at a shoulder of his damp t-shirt. "Not much." He's too tired to deal with this, still reeling from Matt's departure because he can't remember the last time he hugged someone, what on _earth_ -

He'd expected a different response to his apology. A dismissive grunt or headshake, a denial, an accusation of a lie; an abrupt 'Okay' seemed like a hopeful outcome. The warmth in Vladimir's chest at the acceptance is still there, soft and ebbing away at a glacial pace.

"Did Matt say how long he's gonna be gone?" Foggy asks.

"No."

"Well, how long is he usually gone?"

Unable to shrug in-transit to the sofa – and unused to shrugs being a valid answer, from living with Matt for the past almost-week – Vladimir huffs. "Don't know," he says, hoping the line of questioning will be dropped. Matt will get back when he gets back; how is the vigilante supposed to know how long it'll take to interrogate Blake? A hundred things could go wrong.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" the lawyer says. "Because I kinda got the impression from all those articles about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen that the guy hides in alleyways most nights." He jumps up from the arm of the sofa to avoid the criminal traipsing past from getting too close.

"Like you said, not as much in the past week," Vladimir says as he takes a seat. He yawns and realises his mistake. The bandages need to be changed, but he'll probably fall asleep before Matt comes back, and there is no way he's getting Foggy to do it.

Vladimir tugs at the hem of his shirt, wrist straining at the movement of hauling it over his head. The wound is easy enough for someone else to re-bandage without taking his shirt off, sure. But it'd just fall down and get in the way if he tried it himself.

"That's…" Foggy says, from where he stands on the rug, arms folded. "Those are mafia tattoos. A _lot_ of mafia tattoos."

With a roll of his eyes, Vladimir inspects one such tattoo on his right hand – the skull wearing a crown – and then flips it to observe the uninked skin of his palm. Free of tattoos, perhaps, but maculated with scars. Flecks of dirt stand out against the white flesh and pinkish scars, probably from the rooftop gravel. He gives the dirt a nasty look and swings his legs off the couch, standing without pushing off.

"You know you just sat down, right?" Foggy asks.

Vladimir snaps his head to glare at the lawyer who takes a distinct step back. "Have to wash my hands," the criminal explains. Normally, Matt uses disposable gloves, but that won't be necessary for changing the bandages by himself. Vladimir continues through the living area to the kitchen, irritation – from the prospect of dealing with this particular lawyer – amped up by the weary protest of his muscles.

"That burn…" Foggy sounds concerned as he trails Vladimir, footsteps following along.

"Will heal." Not that it matters. Even if the scar is as big as his hand, what's one more amidst the existing plethora?

"Not much," the lawyer says, doubtful.

"Bring the bag. Is on the small table, by the couch," Vladimir says, not in the mood to walk back once he reaches the sink, washing his hands with the soap there. The skin the rectangular bandage is taped to doesn't sting much when he peels it away. He wonders what he'll be able to feel on and around the scar once it's better. If he'll be able to feel anything there at all.

"You talk to Matt like that?" the American asks with a frown as he sets the paper bag on the bench-top. "Orders? 'Do this,' 'do that'?" he says, without venom.

Vladimir folds the bandage and gauze in on itself, tape sealing the used side. He sets it aside and washes his hands again. Nothing nice to say, and all that…

"I don't know how he puts up with you," Foggy sighs.

"Maybe," Vladimir says as he takes the smaller packet of bandages from the paper bag, "is because I believe in Matt. Accept him. You seemed like you were ready to combust." The incision and its stitches appear clean enough, but he should probably wash over it, anyway. He draws out a dry wipe, wets it from the still-running tap, and brushes over the stitches, the near-closed cut.

Foggy leans against the bench, and nods. "You'd want to accept him; you don't exactly have the moral high-ground here."

The criminal huffs out a laugh as he dries the wound with another wipe. It adds to the small pile of used cloths by the bag. "And you do?" he says with a sneer, washing his hands again. "No-name lawyer, dragging everyone down, doesn't even try to understand-"

"Shut up," Foggy says, gaze narrowed and angry. Vladimir raises an eyebrow expectantly. Foggy leans closer – an unconscious attempt at intimidation. "That's bullshit, and you know it. You just met me," he says.

"And you know me so well," Vladimir drawls as he presses new gauze against the incision with his right hand. With his free hand, he reaches for the new bandage and draws it close, as well.

"Your tattoos speak for themselves. At least a few of them mean you've killed people," Foggy says. From his know-it-all tone, Vladimir half-expects it to include a follow-up of 'That's illegal'.

"A few," the criminal admits. "Another means I could steal the watch from your wrist, wallet from your pocket, and you would never notice."

"And these?" Foggy says, raising a hand to poke at one of the stars adorning the front of a shoulder.

Vladimir grabs Foggy's wrist with his right hand, his left remaining on the bandage where he was about to tape it. The grab is a reflex; the harsh clench of his grip is with purpose. Aches sluice through the tendons in his wrist, healing sprain protesting, but he doesn't let go.

The lawyer's eyes have gone wide, nostrils flaring, and from the shudders and attempts to break free, his heartbeat must rival that of a startled rabbit.

"You touch me again," Vladimir says, low and threatening, "and I break your hand."

After a few staggered breaths and quaking, half-hearted attempts to free his hand, Foggy clears his throat. "Y'know," he says, face only a little screwed up in pain, "that's good, because if I touched you again, it'd be to punch you in the face. So. You're lucky."

Vladimir relinquishes his death-grip to flex his sore wrist, then grabs the tape. He shakes his head at the idiocy of Matt's best friend. They both have no sense of self-preservation; perhaps that's why they get along. But there's a difference between taking a punch and threatening a career criminal. As a show of good faith, Vladimir decides he can brave the former.

"Free shot, then. Punch me," he says as he tapes the bandage on.

"What?" Foggy blanches, recoiling. "No."

"Punch me," Vladimir says, dropping the tape back into the bag with an air of finality.

"No."

"Punch me."

"Would you stop-?" Foggy says, shoulders drawn in in frustration.

Vladimir straightens his posture and continues to look the American in the eye. "Punch-"

Foggy clenches a fist and does as he's told, delivering a solid _push_ to the criminal's nose. He isn't a fighter, as Vladimir already suspected; he takes a second to draw back, his hand was loose, and his knuckles don't have a single scar on them. Never split.

"Ack! I think you broke my nose," Vladimir exclaims, cradling a hand over his nose. It hurts, sure, but there wasn't much power behind the punch.

"What- really?" Foggy asks, eyebrows drawn together in concern, eyes wide with shock.

The criminal drops his hand. "No," he says with a mocking smile.

Foggy scowls at this, and throws a harder punch.

Vladimir has no time to register the incoming hit before it gets him. Pain explodes across the lower part of his nose – no black eyes, at least – and smarts with each harsh breath through it. " _Suka_ ," he spits, a breath in through his nose bringing blood with it. He drops his head to look at the floor, and then the sink, as he leans over it. Drops of blood fall, bright red against the silvery metal.

He glances up, half-expecting Foggy to have bolted out the door. But the lawyer is still there, cradling his fist. Satisfaction thrums through Vladimir at the knowledge that Foggy is hurt, too.

It's ruined slightly when Vladimir breathes through his mouth and catches the run of a rivulet of blood. He cringes at the too-familiar metallic taste and draws up enough saliva to spit into the sink.

"Told you so," Foggy says, from where he's retreated to, several feet away.

Vladimir laughs bitterly, leaning against the edge of the bench with one bent elbow, fingers pinching the end of his nose. He concentrates on smooth, easy breaths through the dissipating pain and the traces of blood.

A thunder-crack sounds outside, distant enough that the light is gone, but close enough to really _boom_. Foggy flinches, almost to the point of falling over. Vladimir turns to observe the sky and its gunmetal clouds, coiling and unleashing more rain upon the city.

"Turn on the radio," the criminal says. "Need to hear what happens." To know if Matt is okay, or if things have gone terribly wrong.

* * *

Matt was supposed to be early. He was going to get there before anyone could _get to_ Blake; shut him up or snuff him out. But here Matt is, letting an unconscious Hoffman fall from a headlock. Blake has flat-lined. Police are beating down the door, yelling for Hoffman to tell them _what on earth is going on in there._

The vigilante grits his teeth and takes in harsh breaths. Blake is gone. Injected with air to induce a heart attack literal seconds before Matt vaulted in through the window.

It always happens like this. Something always goes wrong at the last goddamn second. Healy ran his eye through with a spike. Blake shot Piotr for trying to tell the police about Fisk. A bunch of the Russians took Claire. Matt didn't get to Vladimir before the explosions. Stick showed up while Matt was interrogating Owlsley. And now, Blake has died before Matt could intervene.

Rage sparks underneath his skin, white-hot and begging to be let out. To throw furniture out the window or break all of Hoffman's fingers or- he goes with the second idea, stamping on the unconscious detective's nearest hand. He digs the heel of his boot in until there's the distinct crack of broken bones.

No way they won't pin this on the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. If he'd gotten here later then Blake would already be dead, and suspicion could've been thrown onto Hoffman. But no; Matt has perfect timing, as usual.

One of the door hinges gives to the shoulder thrown against it. Trusting his instincts, Matt dashes to the open window and climbs out. Rain patters with less violence than before, but the radio had said it'd rain all night through. More to come, then. There must be clouds overhead, perhaps aflame with the dying sunlight.

The fire escape is slippery with rain, causing Matt to slide for a moment before he latches on the railing. He white-knuckles it for a moment, then turns to jog down the frail staircase. He has to get out of here. Has to get home.

But he's running out of time to talk to Ben Urich, give him information. The whole situation with Fisk gives Matt an easy feeling of time slipping away, as the King of Diamonds sinks his claws further into both the underbelly and law enforcement. As he ruins the lives of everyday people like Ms. Cardenas, as he ends business through decapitation and bombings.

A sliver of fear eases in alongside the general worry as Matt jumps from the final ladder to the slick concrete of the alleyway. He darts to his right, sticking to the wall as best he can, dodging a homeless person's possessions, as he sprints across the side street and into another alley. A car horn honks in his wake. He can't find it in himself to care. Sure, he told Owlsley that Vladimir died, but what if the accountant didn't believe him? If that seed of doubt is still in Fisk's mind, and the man continues to try to track Vladimir down. It's unreasonable to think that the Russian will be found, he knows. Matthew Murdock has no connection to any organised crime, no matter what deals his dad made with Roscoe Sweeney's guys.

But if Vladimir were found and killed, Foggy would be murdered, being a witness. No matter the other implications, that thought spikes at the churning worry. What if Matt lost them both?

The vigilante slows his run to scale a dumpster backed against a wire fence, and jump to grab the fire escape ladder. _Worrying doesn't help_ , he thinks, as his gloved hands barely manage to catch on the slimy metal. He just has to push the recent mini-disaster from his mind, and find Urich. If he runs into anyone in trouble, sure, he'll break a few jaws, but the police have to be on the lookout for him right now. The sooner he gets home, the better.

* * *

"Are you tired?" Foggy asks conversationally as he turns the radio dial to find a station that isn't blasting a select few shitty pop songs.

Vladimir looks at Foggy through the parted fingers of the hand splayed over his face. "What do you think?" he asks from where he's lain down on the sofa.

"You worried about him?" the lawyer asks, tone sympathetic.

Vladimir would prefer it to be mocking. He doesn't want to talk to Foggy about Matt, and only partly because he's not sure what he would say if pressed further. The criminal hums, non-committal.

The radio changes to a report of the traffic – clogged to hell, as usual – that's promising. "You sleep on the couch, right?" Foggy asks over the newsreader.

"Of course," Vladimir says, squinting slightly, and drops the hand over his face to pull up the blanket. This isn't really a line of questioning he wants to pursue. "Are you going to wait for Matt?" he asks.

"Yeah, I think so. I can barely believe he…" Foggy lets out a shaky breath, turning down the volume on the radio as it goes to an advertisement. He sits down on the armchair and leans forward, elbows on his knees, arms folded there. "You… you care about Matt, right?" he asks, looking up to meet the criminal's eyes.

Vladimir doesn't break his gaze. "Yes," he answers carefully.

The lawyer frowns. "So, how do you sit here while he's out there, in danger? Don't you worry?"

"This is only second time he's gone out, while I'm here. I think I was worried, the first time, few days ago. I know that he can fight, can survive, but yes, I worry," Vladimir sighs, settling his hands on his chest and interlacing his fingers. "But there is nothing I can do if something bad happens."

Foggy laughs, hollow and short. "Guess you're not used to that. Feeling powerless."

"Not for a long time," Vladimir replies, drumming his fingertips against his hands. "Since Anatoly died… more so." He doesn't have to explain, to share any of his thoughts. He doesn't have to speak to Foggy at all, if he wants.

But Matt asked, and Foggy is important to Matt. They've come this far, talked already. Fought already. Vladimir figures he has little to lose from a discussion. Not his life story, just.

"Do you have brothers or sisters, Foggy?" he asks, prepared to figure out a backup connection if the answer is no.

Foggy leans back in the chair to settle against the cushion, hands on his knees. "Yeah," he nods, "one brother, two sisters."

"Do you think about what it would be like if one died?" the criminal asks, a blunt fingernail scratching at the cross on the back of his left hand.

"Anatoly… it was your brother, then?" Foggy says, incredulous as he pieces the facts together, eyes wide. "The Russian that had his head crushed-"

"I asked you a question," Vladimir says, intending an air of eerie calm, scratching going still.

Foggy takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. "No. I have no idea what it'd be like."

"Would you like to know?" Vladimir says with a small, mirthless smile.

"I guess you're going to tell me, anyway," the American mutters.

"There have been close-calls," Vladimir begins, words slower than usual as he tries to articulate them. "A car crash, twenty years ago, when we hit a telephone pole. Eight years ago, in prison, in Siberia, he got sick, became weak. Some other prisoners and some guards beat him, the prison had bad food, and there was cold weather. But we escaped, came to America. We were never _safe_ , but it was close.

"It's different, when you lead with someone; two pairs of eyes to look for dangers, two brains to plan. People don't usually have this because of trust issues; betrayal is… it ruins empires. For years, we were there for each other. Now, I can never speak to him again, hear his voice, or see his face. He was older, more mature. More calm, better control, less stubborn."

"So you're the angry, impulsive, stubborn one?" Foggy asks. "Isn't that a little cliché?"

The criminal eyes him with derision, then looks to the rafters. "I am not mindless, or stupid. I- It's difficult to explain," he huffs, pausing to remember the right words. "Anatoly was diplomatic. Did more thinking, made slow decisions, listened to reason. I worry… that I will lose focus, without him. I think I have. I wanted to wage war; to kill Fisk, burn _his_ empire to the ground. Now, I have nothing to do that. I feel alone. I know I need to move forward, without my brother, but… I do not want to forget him. The memories of him."

Vladimir adjusts his posture and wrinkles his nose. The low-lying grief inside has risen, coiled and waiting to lash out, but it has no viable target. There's no venom behind it, at least not at Foggy. His energy has drained and hopelessness set in; he's done talking, for now.

Foggy seems to sense this, clearing his throat before speaking. "I don't think you'll forget. You're not that old," he laughs.

"Older than you," Vladimir says, wiping at his nose, careful of the bruise that's forming.

"Not by much, c'mon. I'm twenty-seven, Matt's twenty-eight. You can't be more than, what?"

"Thirty-two. Thirty-three in a few weeks," Vladimir shrugs. At Foggy's wide eyes, he laughs. "Escaped from prison eight years, ago, was in there for three years. I'm not too young."

Foggy is silent for a short while, shoe tapping against the timber flooring. "I mean, people usually have more closure after funerals, and wakes. I guess you didn't have time for any of that," he says.

"Is different when it's murder. People want revenge," the criminal says with a sigh, remembering all the times rival mobs had been out for blood, as he had been. It was for lesser things; destroying restaurants, scaring off new recruits, or, once, killing a higher-up. Overreacting isn't – wasn't – good for business. Vladimir had scoffed at how those others had wasted resources, men and guns and ammo, only to be annihilated.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Vladimir would never overreact, never throw everything at someone and be burned down to ash. But Fisk killed his brother, removed his head, for what? Vladimir still hasn't found out what was so damn terrible to decapitate his brother. It never should have happened. He should have yielded to returning to Moscow, or stayed stubborn against letting Fisk take over what they'd gotten from Prohaszka.

Wrong decision, wrong time. He's sleeping on the couch of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the masked crazy who started this whole mess with falling behind in cargo.

But Matt is- he isn't an idiot, and he isn't hopeless. He has plans, and information, and violent determination. He-

"You're looking a little angry, there," Foggy says, "flashbacks? Someone, uh, got revenge on you?" He draws a line with his fingertip over one eye and down his face.

Vladimir scowls, eyes narrowing. "No. Doesn't matter," he says, blinking as he yawns.

"You really get that tired, huh?" the lawyer asks. "Must be the gunshot wound, or something. I'll keep an eye on the radio, wait for the news to roll around again. You've got dark circles going on; with all the scars, you almost look undead."

The scowl loses its venom, giving way to an unimpressed glare.

Foggy holds his hands up in surrender. "Just a thought! Remember, I've got a mean right hook, so however much you want to kill me right now, know that you'll get a nosebleed if you try," he says.

Vladimir smirks, tapping the forming bruise on his nose with his index finger and pointing at the other man. He rolls his shoulders and tries to settle into the several cushions piled at this end of the couch.

Ordinarily, sleeping in the presence of an acquaintance is idiotic, even with guns and knives and goons. But Vladimir just spilled his guts to Foggy and took a punch earlier. And if Matt trusts Foggy, and Vladimir trusts Matt… he might as well sleep. Better than stilted conversation, at least.

The radio station switches again, once, twice, through music and ads, till it all blurs to static.

* * *

A thump to the back of the couch startles Vladimir from his doze, flinching and almost rolling off onto the floor. He catches a hand on the coffee table and steers himself upright.

"Hey, wake up. Matt's back," Foggy says, one hand hitting the back of the couch again.

Vladimir is about to cuss out Foggy when the words tick over in his brain. "Matt," he barks, scrambling up and throwing off the blanket. Pain ripples across his abdomen, concentrated beneath the bandage, but he ignores it.

"Are you okay?" Matt calls back, from the top of the stairs.

"What? You are the one who-" Vladimir snaps. He's baffled that the vigilante is concerned about someone else, while Matt's been roaming the streets with a target on his back.

"You- there was blood, in the sink, and on you. Your nose… what happened?" Matt asks, stuttering through the shivers wracking his body. Each shuddering step squelches underfoot, boot against timber.

"You're soaked to the bone, Matt. Where have you been?" Foggy asks, wringing his hands as he stands by the armchair. "I heard, on the radio, about you _killing_ Blake-"

Vladimir glares at Foggy for not waking him with the news, but doesn't berate him for it.

"It was Hoffman, paid off by Fisk. I got there a minute too late," Matt says as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and staggers to a stop. Something is wrong. Matt is fit; he can overpower a dozen men with his bare hands so long as they're bottlenecked. He doesn't _stagger_.

Vladimir marches up to him as best he can with his weak legs and half-asleep brain. Fortunately, Matt doesn't seem intent on moving from the base of the staircase. The criminal latches a hand onto Matt's shoulder, half for support, and half to confirm a shared theory.

"Soaked," Vladimir repeat's Foggy's analysis, tone accusing. "Shoes off, come on," he says, nudging Matt with his shoulder and repeating his words when Matt doesn't comply. "One shoe, then the other, off."

"I don't-" the brunet says, taking off his mask – just as soaked as the rest of his clothes – which leaves droplets on his eyelashes.

"Shoes," Vladimir insists, one socked foot knocking against a boot.

Matt crouches to untie his laces, fumbling to find the ends. He loosens the laces enough to wiggle each boot off, one by one. He stands shakily, swaying with fatigue.

"What happened, Matt?" Foggy asks, still keeping his distance.

Vladimir snatches one of the vigilante's hands when the gloves prove too complex to detach, muttering, "Can't stay in cold clothes." He wrenches at the Velcro by the wrist and gets his fingertips under the material – meeting icy, damp skin – and pushes off the glove.

Matt simply stands there, shoulders hunched, and lets his other hand be taken, its glove removed. Autopilot seems to kick back in once the second glove goes, as he paws at the hem of his shirt. It goes nowhere. He can't seem to get a grip on the thick fabric, fingertips pruned and slippery from the rain despite the gloves.

With a wretched sigh, Vladimir throws caution – and Foggy's opinion – to the wind for the sake of practicality. He bats the vigilante's hands away to snatch the material, curling one hand around each hip before hiking the shirt up. He readjusts his grip to try to haul it off completely, but Matt's arms are still at his sides.

Vladimir huffs. "Arms up for shirt off, Matt. What are you, drunk?" he says, tugging at the bunched-up fabric. He keeps his glare limited to Matt's eyes, pointedly not looking at the smooth planes of Matt's chest. Definitely not thinking about how all that skin would be cool to the touch from the rain, those firm muscles-

"No, I'm not drunk," Matt snaps, even as he complies, raising his arms at a glacial pace, "just tired." His voice is muffled as he mutters through the fabric as it's pulled over his head. "Got cold, kept raining."

Vladimir scoffs and mutters acrimoniously in Russian as he lets the shirt fall to the floor to join the boots and gloves. "You get in shower and stay in, until you are warm," he orders. He pops the button on Matt's cargo pants and pulls apart each side, so he doesn't have to touch the zipper. If Matt can't handle Velcro, a button would dumbfound him.

"Hot water costs money," the brunet protests. He starts walking, though, when Vladimir pushes him, with a knock of a shoulder and a sharp knee to the back of a thigh, toward the bathroom.

"And pneumonia does not?"

"Yeah, you don't wanna catch a cold," Foggy chimes in.

Matt frowns at both of the blonds as if they've personally offended him. The mess of hair plastered to his forehead undermines the look. Vladimir follows closely, crowding Matt to keep walking, and opens the door for him.

"Why do you smell like blood?" the vigilante asks, reaching for the ventilation fan's switch.

"No reason-"

"Vladimir," Matt says, exhaustion enhancing his admonishing tone.

"Foggy punched me. Got a blood nose," Vladimir says as he opens the shower door.

Matt frowns, puzzled. "What happened?"

"I let him punch me. I think he is more angry at me than you." That might not be quite true, but Vladimir is a better target; he has more mistakes, fewer morals, and less patience. "Your face has taken enough beatings," Vladimir pats Matt's jaw, then moves his hand up to smooth the hair from the brunet's face. "Don't want you to be ugly, Matt," he mocks.

Matt trades the frown for a smile, but it's sabotaged by a shiver.

Vladimir pushes Matt so he stumbles back, stepping over the shower doorframe to avoid falling over. "You get warm and then you go to bed," he says, matter-of-fact.

For once in his life, Matt doesn't argue; he nods. The criminal moves to flee, taking a step back. "Hey, wait," Matt says, a hand searching through one pocket and then another. He finds a key, silver and untarnished. "Remember when you said I mustn't have any real friends? I'd like to change that thought."

Vladimir remembers. It'd been a security thing, to check if anyone else had keys to the place, and he'd light-heartedly mocked Matt for his negative answer. He takes the key and flees, closing the bathroom door behind him, only to be met with Foggy's incredulous frown.

"You guys are- you know what? I don't care. This is too much, for one day. Matt is-" Foggy laughs, "Matt is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and you're, here." He gestures around the apartment with a wave of both arms. "So, I'm out of here. Tell Matt I'll see him at work tomorrow."

"He heard you, probably," Vladimir says over the sound of running water, then presses his lips into a thin line. He holds out the key in one palm, and nods to it. "For you."

Foggy looks like he wants to say more, brows furrowed, stance tense, but he doesn't. He takes the key and pockets it without another word, and only a moment's hesitation. "I'd better go," he says, hands in pockets. "I would say it was nice to meet you, but… I mean, it was okay. I wasn't the one that got a nosebleed, anyway. Just… you seem like you have a pretty good memory."

Vladimir takes a second to figure out what that means, recalling their earlier conversation. "Goodbye," he says, wishing Foggy would leave and stop giving Vladimir more reasons to not hate him. It's much easier when you hate people you're in conflict with. God, he needs to sleep more; until this all blows over, perhaps.

"Bye," Foggy answers. He leaves, and locks the door behind him.

Vladimir trails back to the sofa, and falls asleep, ready for the day to be over.

* * *

It's still dark. Of course it's still dark. The colossal neon sign is blinking away, but the sun is nowhere to be seen. Is it so much to ask that he sleep through the night? Vladimir rolls his eyes, determined to shift sleeping position and pass out until morning.

A soft sound interrupts him. Above pattering rain and the chatter of the nightlife, a flurry of sobs filter through from the next room.

Vladimir looks to the closed door, sure he imagined it.

A sniffle, a quiet whine.

The couch-dweller kicks off the blanket and rises from the sofa. He pads across the room, wiping at the sleep in an eye, trying to ignore the pulsing ache in the wound from today's walking.

Vladimir has lost acquaintance with crying, over the years. He cried over Anatoly's death, but he was lost and alone. Vladimir wonders if that's how Matt feels, now. He doesn't knock on the bedroom door, and instead whispers the vigilante's name, questioning.

Matt makes an odd sound, caught between something affirmative and a sob.

Good enough. Vladimir eases the door open just enough to slip through, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He's never been in here before. The room is spacious as is the rest of the apartment; a bed, dresser, wardrobe, armchair, storage bench. Glasses and an alarm clock are the sole items on the nightstand. No photographs, no knick-knacks, anywhere around the room, like the rest of the apartment. Matt lies in the centre of the large bed, a pyjama-clad arm thrown over his face.

Unable to stand for much longer on tired legs, Vladimir bypasses the uncomfortable-looking armchair to sit on the edge of the bed. He tries to steady himself with a hand on the nightstand, but hits the alarm clock off it, and abandons that endeavour. The clock should work just as well on the floor.

"What's wrong?" he asks, loud in the near-silence. One hand rests against the mattress for support, fingers curling into the soft, grey sheet there.

Matt exhales and shifts his arm to be above his head. "I hate fighting with him," he says, a tear rolling down his already-damp cheek.

Vladimir paws at the teardrop with his free hand, but it's quickly replaced with another drop.

"I understand his perspective," the brunet says, breath hitching in a half-formed sob. "But I… I don't agree. This city needs me."

"I know," Vladimir agrees, brushing away more tears before drawing back his hand.

"He needs me, too, but I… what's one person's happiness worth compared to people's lives? I don't want to have to choose."

Vladimir sighs, and shifts to sit fully on the bed. He forgoes saying what Matt wants to hear in favour of speaking his mind. "If everyone who helps, like you do, is held back by… loved ones, there would be no-one to protect people. It's dangerous, but those people are in danger, also."

"Yeah. I have to help," Matt says with a sniff, his breaths shallow. "I can talk to Foggy again; see if he'll come around. I think he's already partway there, even if he doesn't want to be."

"He will understand," Vladimir says as he cards his fingers through the auburn notes of Matt's hair. "Things will change. For the better."

"As in, 'this too shall pass'?" the vigilante asks, blinking skyward, sclerae red-streaked from tears. The pale circles under his eyes have eased over the past few days, probably from the lack of patrols.

"Mm. After your father died, you continued. Grew up, went to college, made something of yourself. Things will be better, again," he repeats. Things have to get better, at least for Matt.

"You know that too, right?"

"I said it."

Matt rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Vladimir hums in acknowledgement, continuing to run his fingers through Matt's hair. "Right now, I have a headache, so I don't care."

"A punch to the head can do that, I hear. Must suck," the vigilante commiserates with a yawn. "Get some sleep. Might help."

Vladimir is too tired to protest, because lately, he's spent the better part of the day asleep, both at nights and intermittent naps. He straightens his posture and shuffles to leave.

Matt catches his left hand where it rests against the mattress, just as Vladimir goes to pull it away. "I…" the brunet says, then wets his lips. His eyes flit around, searching.

"Yes?" Vladimir asks, halting his escape to squeeze the hand holding his own, on instinct.

"Stay? I just… don't want to be alone."

Vladimir considers reminding Matt that they're only a room apart if he leaves, but finds no real reason to. He doesn't want to leave, so why should he? He releases Matt's hand and moves enough to lie down without bashing his head on the wall.

"Thanks," Matt whispers.

The blond hums in acknowledgement. The windows in here are not much smaller than the ones in the living room, but without the billboard, they let in enough light to see and nothing more. It's a nice change, Vladimir thinks as he snatches one last look to check that Matt isn't regretting his decision.

Matt faces the other way, but since he isn't shoving Vladimir off the bed he must be fine with it. He doesn't even move away to put any distance between them. Although, Matt's body is under the top-sheet, so they're not really touching despite being shoulder-to-shoulder.

Tonight, the weather is more mild than the chill that has been hanging around recently. A quilt sits folded across the foot of the bed, patchwork all the same uniform charcoal shade. The silk sheets are all right. Light, thin, and way too soft. They're nice, but Vladimir is a little worried about bleeding on them, if something happens with the bullet wound.

He looks to the windows, with their mismatched panels of glass. He's still not sure if it's supposed to be artistic, or if it's cheaper to use random scraps. Rain flows down the glass as more drops hit, the patter of them more ambient than invasive.

Vladimir pretends it's the ambient rainfall and not the warm body beside him that lulls him to sleep within minutes.

* * *

Matt wastes precious seconds after hearing the front door unlock – its pins align, then the springs creak to give way and the chamber turns. No-one has a key. But yesterday, he gave a key to Vladimir to give to Foggy, and-

Vladimir sleeps away beside him, head lolled against his shoulder, hair brushing his neck. They're not touching, otherwise; Vladimir lies at an odd angle to the rectangular bed, feet almost off the side despite his head being in the centre.

Soft breaths and slow beats of a sleeping heart distract Matt. Sure, they'd been closer on the roof, but it was raining and the vigilante had to leave. Now, Matt is almost content to stay like this, basking in silk sheets and Vladimir asleep beside him. He's just thinking how that should be so odd – so strange to be okay with this, but it doesn't _feel_ that way – when footsteps remind him of the intruder.

Matt has to get up, to pretend to have been awake for more than thirty seconds. He gets so far as to wriggle his arms above the sheets and shove them down far enough to free his torso. There's a hesitant knock at his half-open door, and the nervous beating of his best friend's heart.

"Yeah," Matt says, voice strangled from sleep. He shuffles toward the headboard as he sits upright, senses waking to the rest of the world. Even Foggy should be able to hear the particularly aggressive motorist flooring their engine and smashing their car horn outside.

Vladimir hears it, or something, at least, as he stirs with an unimpressed grunt.

"Good morning," Foggy says as he slides the door open fully. He smells of the coffee he had for breakfast and the chewing gum he stepped in on the way here. "You're decent, thank God," he mutters, almost inaudibly.

"Morning," the brunet says with a greeting smile, choosing to ignore the second statement. Yeah, not looking forward to that conversation they'll have to have. He kicks off the sheet and hops off the bed, on the side opposite to the two other men.

"So," Foggy begins, "you gave me a key. That's cool, right?"

"Yeah, I meant to. For a while," Matt says.

"I'm glad. I swung by to see if you'd want to walk to the office together, get some bagels on the way. Didn't realise you planned on sleeping in."

Vladimir groans in agitation and throws an arm over his face, probably to shield his eyes from the light that must pour through the windows.

"Good morning to you, too," Foggy coos as he pockets the key ring. "So, you sleep on the couch, huh?"

Vladimir lashes out, the heel of a foot bashing Foggy in the lower thigh.

Foggy staggers back with an affronted gasp, hand going to cover the attacked spot. "And after I bought you a gift, too. So ungrateful," he says as he pulls a phone from his jacket's inner pocket. "Burner phone. It's got my number in it, and Matt's. Don't know what Matt's burner number is; I figure he can tell you. You're welcome."

"Thanks," Vladimir grits out, before the burner phone hits him in the head.

"Oops, sorry," Foggy lies, staying out of range of the second attack launched at him. "So, you want to go to work any time today?"

"My alarm is set for seven, Fog," Matt says with a shake of his head.

"It's quarter to eight," Foggy laughs, double-checking his watch. "Yeah, it's almost eight o'clock."

Matt hesitates, then turns on his heel and opens his wardrobe. "Vladimir," he says, "this is your fault." He rifles through the few suits, settling on the first normal, everyday one that he finds.

"My fault?" Vladimir asks, confused, as he sets the burner phone on the nightstand.

"Yes, your fault," the brunet confirms. He sets the suit on the side of the bed to separate the items of clothing. "You knocked the alarm clock off the nightstand. Must've knocked a battery out, or something." Matt snatches up his clothes and bustles past his friend to rush to the bathroom. He shuts the door and begins changing clothes in a hurry, trying not to remember how he'd needed help the last time he undressed, fatigued and shivering.

"We have time for bagels, Matt, calm down," Foggy calls through the door, then wanders back to the bedroom doorway. "So, Vladimir, you went sleepwalking? That's a wicked bruise you've got. Someone must've punched you pretty hard."

While Matt buttons his shirt as fast as he can, there's a clattering of plastic, and then a sound of impact as the alarm clock hits Foggy in the chest. Foggy grumbles about it, feigning traumatic injury. He seems to be less averse to Matt, post-confession, than yesterday; perhaps time is what he needs. Time alone won't fix the problem, this rift between them, but it might ease it. Matt hopes so.

"Get out of my way," Vladimir says, shoving past Foggy to exit the bedroom. "Going to make coffee."

"Good plan! Café coffee is expensive," Foggy agrees.

"None for you," Vladimir grumbles.

Matt smiles to himself, both amused and relieved at the exchange. They're not fighting again, at least. Maybe things will get better, if he works for it. Maybe.

* * *

Russian:

Suka / Сука ~ Bitch  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	14. Wasted Days and Sleepless Nights

Construction is ever-present in Manhattan. Since the Incident, it's only increased. Many older buildings that were damaged crumbled, and those that were only scraped got demolished along with the rest of them. Rebuild anew, and all that.

Matt can tune it out. The jackhammers and sledgehammers pummelling concrete, concrete mixers churning cement and aggregate and water, electronic signs buzzing away. Now, he'd rather listen to that than the approaching inquisition.

"You owe me a bagel for lunch, now. Since you slept in," Foggy says after much deliberation. They walk almost side-by-side, Matt a pace behind as he's guided along the shoddy path. Construction is already underway on the other side of the street, and he can smell the spray paint marking the pavement for its flaws.

"I told you, it's not my fault that I slept in," Matt says.

"Yeah, that's right," Foggy feigns an epiphany. "Vladimir added your alarm clock to his has-murdered list, somehow…?"

"He's not particularly adept at walking, if you haven't noticed."

"Sure, but. I mean, you have to realise how it looked. Vladimir was MIA from the couch when he'd told me yesterday that that's where he sleeps. Bathroom door was open, no-one in there. I assume he's still a bit of a wanted fugitive, so I doubted he'd gone out. He undressed you yesterday-"

"That's an exaggeration, Foggy," Matt says, shaking his head. "He was just looking out for me, worried that I'd get sick."

"Exactly!"

" _That_ was your point?"

"Kinda? I mean, from what I understand, he wanted you dead for weeks while you were thwarting his mob's evil plans. And now he's being all… nice to you? It's strange, was my point," Foggy concludes.

Matt shakes his head. "There's a difference between hating the person who keeps thwarting your 'evil plans' and hating the person who dragged you from the rubble of your mob's bombed warehouse."

Foggy hums, considering but not quite agreeing. "Kerb down," he says as they reach a street corner.

"Yeah," Matt says, and repeats it when Foggy tells him 'kerb up'. "I think Vladimir understands, now, that I'm not just meddling. And that… I'm not a liar. Not anymore. Not to him, and not to you."

Foggy sighs, and rolls his shoulders. "So we're not telling Karen, huh?" he says, though it's not much of a question.

"No." Matt hesitates; he knows they can't – not yet – but he takes a second to piece together precisely why. Karen is already involved in the investigation, so he'd be hard-pressed to cite danger as a reason.

"Do I get to know why?"

"Union Allied and Fisk almost ruined her life. They tried to send her to jail for murdering a man who'd been trying to help her uncover the company's activities. Vladimir worked with Fisk's organisation. I know he's turned over a new leaf, but Karen might not find that so easy to believe."

Foggy tilts his head to the side, considering. "I'm not sure I do," he says with a crack of his neck.

Matt exhales. They've been over this. "Yeah, well, I do, so."

"I can tell," Foggy says with a laugh.

* * *

The new-old appliances hum low and steady, innards whirring, electricity buzzing. Karen rearranges papers with agitated, jerky movements. She sets the files down when Foggy opens the front door to the office.

"Morning, Karen," Foggy chirps over the rattle of the boiling electric kettle.

"Uh, good morning," Karen says, a nail tapping at her desk, staccato and erratic. "You…? I guess you haven't seen it."

"Seen what?" Matt asks with a frown. He sets his bag down by the door to his office and returns to stand by Karen's desk.

"Well, good news first; Ms. Bradshaw dropped by, left this," the secretary waves a small piece of thin paper. "A bank cheque for three hundred dollars; the first payment of several from her. The guy from Sharma and Yates says the ex-boyfriend dropped them and gave up his bid for the apartment, so Ms. Bradshaw gets to keep it. And no shopping for a new place means real money for us, so."

"That's great," Foggy says, snatching the cheque to inspect it. "Guess that company she works for pays better than she let on."

"Or she dipped into savings. Anyway, then there's the bad news; Fisk had an impromptu press conference, earlier this morning," Karen says, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. "He said… um. You should just watch it." She pats away imaginary dust from the hem of her skirt.

Matt's heart sinks. "Press conference?" he echoes without meaning to.

With a few clicks, Karen brings up the page on her laptop and turns it so Foggy can see. She leans forward in her chair to reach over the screen and press the spacebar to play the video.

Fisk sounds no different to the way he did on the handheld radio when he speaks.

 _'I'm not very good at this, out, being in public. But I felt the need to speak up for this city that I love with all my heart. No-one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen who have no regard for who they injure. In fear of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, who has inflicted untold pain and suffering. This masked terrorist and psychopaths of his kind, we must show them we will not bow down to their campaign of coercion and intimidation. We must stand up to them._

 _'As this man, my dearest friend, Leland Owlsley, a pillar in the financial community, stood up when he was recently assaulted. But this assault was for no other reason than to send me a message. A message warning me to stop. To give up my dream that I have for this city. A dream of a better place. A place for its citizens to feel safe. To feel pride. I tried to do this quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The last thing I wanted was for anyone close to me to become a target from those who do not share my dream. For those who will have this city stay exactly as it is, mired in poverty and crime._

 _'But I know now it was foolish to make that decision. That I can no longer do it alone. That I cannot keep living in the shadows afraid of the light. None of us can. None of us should be forced to. We must do this together. We must resist those who would have us live in fear. My name is Wilson Fisk. And together, we can make this city a better place.'_

"The main title is, 'Wilson Fisk pledges aid to Hell's Kitchen'," Foggy says as he sets down the cheque on the desk. "And then, 'Speaks out against violence and corruption'. Fisk is wearing a black suit. There's a woman next to him; white dress, beige overcoat. An older guy, and the guy that asked us to defend Healy. There's a few running mini-titles I didn't quite catch. Can you play it again, Karen?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure thing."

Foggy reads out the running mini-titles as they go by. "'Some community leaders question motives.' 'Fisk's political ties unknown at this time.' 'Previously unknown philanthropist identified as Wilson Fisk.' 'Mayor applauds citizens who 'give back to the community.'' 'NYPD reaffirms effort to stem violent crime.' 'Hell's Kitchen city council yet to release statement.' 'Some community-' they've started them again."

Matt bristles with rage, unable to move for fear of lashing out. His fingers white-knuckle his cane, and socked toes dig into the insoles of his shoes. He pries one hand from his cane to pat over his pockets. Wallet, keys, _phone_.

He clicks to the final number there – thank you, alphabetical order – and goes to press call. He can't talk with Foggy openly because Karen is here; she can't know, not yet-

"Matt, are you okay?" Karen's voice breaks through the haze of fury clouding the vigilante's mind.

"No. I have to make a phone call," he says, voice clipped and breaths all too short. He steps back with a nod as if to excuse himself.

"Wait, what?" Karen laughs, unamused. "Call, about this?" she gestures to the laptop. "Matt, if there's someone else involved in the investigation, we need to know about it."

Foggy sagely chooses not to intervene. Matt considers escaping to his office without answering Karen. A knock at the door breaks the tense silence, followed by the mobile phone blaring its electronic ringtone. Matt seizes the opportunity to flee; he steps back into his office and closes the door behind him.

"I hope I didn't interrupt," Ben Urich says steps through the front door. "I figured an hour was long enough for damage control."

Matt winces, tightening his grip on the phone as he presses the answer button. He swings the door shut and brings the phone to his ear.

" _Hello?_ " Vladimir says, volume barely above a whisper.

Matt vows not to read into the way the tightness in his chest wanes. "Hey. What's wrong?" he says, free hand on his hip. 'I was just about to call you,' stays put on the tip of his tongue.

" _Have you heard_ …" Vladimir says. His accent is notably heavier than usual. " _Have you heard about Fisk's speech?_ "

"Yeah. I just heard the whole thing. Karen told us about it when we arrived."

" _I heard information about it from the radio, but none of the speech. What does he say?_ "

"That he has plans to help the city," Matt says, throat constricted. "'A Better Tomorrow', the newsreader said."

" _Yes, I know. Be specific._ "

Matt wracks his brain for details, but the speech is a haze. It's so ridiculous – so cosmically unfair. Fisk has made this move just as Ben was about to exhume him from obscurity, from shady business deals and too many dumped bodies.

"My laptop is here at the office, I can't- you'll just have to keep the radio on and listen out for it. I'll be home around midday, and I'll bring my laptop so you can hear it all then," the lawyer promises, moving to hold the phone with both hands. "You'll just have to wait, okay? Sorry, I've got to go."

" _Matt, wait-_ "

"Look, Ben Urich is here; I have to go."

" _Matt_ -"

Matt cuts him off again, anger bleeding venom into his words. "I'll see you later, Vladimir. Don't do anything stupid."

" _Of course. Goodbye_ ," Vladimir snaps.

The pressing of several incorrect buttons precedes the dial tone. Matt grips the phone tightly as he brings it away from his ear. He hadn't meant to lash out, even a little.

Vladimir must already on-edge from hearing about Fisk on the radio, alone in someone else's apartment, with no-one else to call. Matt can call back after Ben leaves. He puts the shakiness of his hands down to stress – because everything feels like it's falling apart, all of a sudden, all because of Fisk. It isn't Matt's fault that he hadn't acted sooner. Even if Ben had gotten word out with what 'dead'-fugitive-sourced information Matt gave him, what good could it have done? Fisk would have rebutted the accusations with stories and evidence of his philanthropic endeavours.

Time is sand slipping through the hourglass, a little extra with each knock against the glass from Fisk. Absurdly, Matt gets the feeling he's let people down. Victims of Fisk's organisation, direct and indirect. People forced out of tenements, jurors blackmailed, lives destroyed. Or maybe the person who just hung up on him.

* * *

Vladimir glares at the phone like it's personally offended him. It has, really. It's a sturdy thing, though, as most burner phones are, so it survived what could've been a one-way trip onto the coffee table not two minutes ago.

The criminal sits on the ledge by the window, knees tucked under his chin, one arm losing warmth to the glass where he leans against it. He looks away from the cell-phone and lets his head fall against the window. His breath mists on the glass, hazing his view of the adjacent building and the street far below.

Earlier this morning, Matt and Foggy left not long after the latter arrived, to avoid being too late to the office. Vladimir scrounged up his own breakfast of fruit with a side of pills, and tried to sleep. He reached for the radio to switch off the traffic report when they changed tack to breaking news. He heard – aloud, without a snipe of Wesley reprimanding someone – 'Wilson Fisk', and almost fell off the sofa trying to turn the radio up.

They didn't say too much about it. Mystery philanthropist vows to help the city, speaks out against vigilantes.

Calling Matt seemed like the logical thing. But no, the reporter was there, and Matt couldn't possibly spare the time. Vladimir can't fathom why he'd fooled himself into thinking Matt would bother.

Don't do anything stupid.

As if Vladimir could make this any worse. As if he's enough of a fool to go after Fisk for making one stupid speech.

* * *

Matt has no desire to go home after his visit to the church, the discussion of the devil with Father Lantom. Through murder or prosecution, he has to stop Fisk, although it still seems like a lofty goal. Now that Fisk is _out of the shadows_ , the future feels horribly uncertain. Matt had a plan, dammit. And now Fisk is trying to assert himself as a community figure, a respectable philanthropist, a man with a tragic childhood trying to do some good in the world.

Matt _does_ want to visit Vladimir, to discuss the speech with someone less moralistic, with a real vendetta. To hear, quiet and determined, the encouragement everyone else is too virtuous to give; kill Fisk.

But Matt has to get back to work. To do the legal groundwork, keep the few clients the firm has, research evidence against Fisk to corroborate what Vladimir told him, what else they've deduced.

A small, irritating voice in his head tells the vigilante that Vladimir could legally verify the information he gave to Ben. Could testify against Fisk, get put away for his own crimes, die in prison. It's the last step – the endgame event – that removes any such plan from the realm of possibility. They'll find another way, this tiny law firm and Ben Urich. Enough people have perished already. Matt isn't about to let anyone else die for this cause, if he can help it.

* * *

Vladimir gives up on waiting for Matt when the radio announcers rattle off the hourly traffic and breaking news; two o'clock. Midday is dead and gone; Matt probably won't come home until the evening, now.

But Vladimir can't sit around for hours. That's what he's been doing all morning, all midday. A few hours ago, he'd thought that he could pass the time as he usually does, now; sleeping. But for what seemed like the first time since the explosions, sleep eluded him. A bath helped, marginally, but after a night spent on silk sheets and an _actual mattress_ , the couch might as well have been the gravelly rooftop.

Free time raises the question of what the hell to do with it, but it isn't free time when there's the unknown speech hanging over his head. He needs to know what Fisk said, what lies the man has spewed on-air to be eaten up by the local media. Helping the city, the radio said. But you don't get involved in organised to crime to help anyone but yourself, or maybe your family.

Vladimir brings his arms above his head to stretch, scrutinising the world beyond the windows. The rain has done little to clean the street, turning the dirt into mud and spreading November's last-ditch efforts to rid trees of their leaves.

Somewhere, Fisk is organising more philanthropic gestures of throwing money at projects. And elsewhere, Matt is working to bring him down, and struggling to keep the fledgling law firm afloat.

Somewhere. Vladimir wonders where, exactly, as he lowers his arms from the stretch. The office can't be too far if Matt and Foggy walk there together. And it has to be within Hell's Kitchen, considering how dedicated Matt appears to be to these few city blocks. There has to be something around here that has the office's address on it; a business card, a lease; something not in Braille.

Vladimir doesn't have much to do, after all. As much as he'd like to find and kill Turk Barrett for lying about the Man in the Mask working for Fisk, that can happen at a later date. Or Barrett can rot in prison, perhaps. Everyone who works for Fisk needs to be dragged down along with him, from ambiguity or philanthropic acclaim, to adjoining cells in Ryker's Island.

Whatever their fates – smeared on the sidewalk, locked away, or crumpled at the bottom of the river – the world isn't waiting. Fisk has made his move, and Matt needs to retaliate. Vladimir is quite happy to help.

* * *

"Basic tenet of both law and war, know your enemy," Matt says, as though he hasn't read _The Art of War_ multiple times and could quote entire paragraphs.

"Thank you, Sun Tzu," Foggy says, probably with a roll of his eyes. "But I don't that quote means that you should treat a crime lord-"

And here they go again. "For goodness' sake, Fog-"

Foggy continues, gesturing something akin to badly playing a piano. "Like some injured little pigeon that tried to claw your eyes out, but then accepts the bits of bread you give it."

Matt decides that's unworthy of a response – a pigeon, really? – and so tries to channel 'shut up' through his glare.

"Pigeons aside," Karen says with a wave of her hands, "Matt, what _does_ the quote mean?"

"It means we keep digging," Matt says as he unfolds his cane. "Like you said, somewhere out there, there's a piece of paper, or a witness, or something that'll lead to the truth."

"Okay, good," Karen says, anger quelled. She straightens her back, one hand idly holding her other wrist.

"But, do it quietly. Stay under the radar." Matt backs away from the group to the front door, reaching around for the handle.

"Where are you going?" Foggy asks.

"Three people stood with Fisk when he addressed the city. His man from Confed Global, Owlsley and a woman. One the press said he seemed close with."

"Oh, yeah, uh," Karen says, grabbing the newspaper again and scanning it. "Vanessa, um, Marianna. It says she works at Scene Contempo Gallery."

"Maybe it's time I invested in some art," Matt says with a half-smile. He's about to turn the door handle when it rotates in his grip of its own accord. The door opens inwards, knocking Matt's head and arm until he stumbles out of the way. It's more shock than pain that smarts from his right temple and resonates on that side of his head.

A person follows the door, stepping over the threshold to hold Matt's head with both hands. Matt didn't hear the intruder before – from the conversation, Ms. Cardenas leaving, other people in the building – but that doesn't matter right now.

"Sorry, Matt. Are you okay?" Vladimir asks brashly, gloved thumb brushing Matt's stubbled cheek. "Are you okay, Matt?" he repeats with a softer tone.

"What're you-?" Matt says, cutting himself off to inhale. Vladimir should _not_ be here, not with Karen not knowing and anyone else that could just waltz in. Foggy's heart thuds like he's preparing to jump out the window he's edged towards, putting Karen's desk between himself and the criminal.

"You did not hear me at the door?" Vladimir asks. He's dressed no differently than at the apartment – cheap sweatpants and a t-shirt – save for a hoodie and a pair of borrowed sneakers. There are also the gloves he must've stolen from Matt's chest of drawers, though it's not cold enough to justify wearing them.

"Matt was in the middle of a conversation," Karen says, standing her ground in front of her desk. "So, watch where you open a door next time. Knock, maybe."

Vladimir chuckles, mirthless. "You must be Karen," he says, offering a gloved hand after he lets go of Matt.

"I can't say I know your name," the secretary says with a wary shake of their hands.

"This is, uh," Foggy says from his window perch, attempting to come to the rescue. "Matt's friend. Um, Vince." Which should cover any slips of starting to say 'Vladimir'. As opposed to, 'This is Matt's friend, with the same name as one of former higher-ups in Fisk's crime ring.' Yeah, a fake name might be a smart idea.

"Nice to meet you," Karen says, snatching back her hand.

Vladimir repeats the sentiment with exaggerated sweetness, which is jarring to hear.

"That's one heck of a bruise, Vince. Sorry about that," Foggy says, waving to his own face.

Matt forgot about that; doesn't usually have to worry how bruises look, only if they're visible past his work attire. If he concentrates, he might be able to discern the barely raised temperature where the blood vessels are knitting themselves back together. He shouldn't be able to, though, since Vladimir shouldn't be at the office.

"What's wrong?" Matt asks. "Why're you here?" He isn't sure if he should usher Vladimir to the hallway or drag him home by his ear for showing up without warning.

Vladimir grabs the brunet's right hand, cane and all, and yanks up his sleeve, then snatches his other hand to press it to his wristwatch. "What time is it?"

Matt's fingers fumble over the timepiece, but he reads it well enough. "Two-forty." He expects Vladimir to relinquish his hold on his hands, but no such luck.

"Karen," Vladimir says, turning his head to look at her. "Would you say that two-forty is 'midday'?"

"I can't say I would," Karen says as she crosses her arms.

Vladimir drops Matt's hands, finally. "Forget something?" he asks with faux innocence.

Matt clears his throat. He can apologise and explain later, when they're alone. "Karen, could you please bring up the speech again? V- Vince hasn't seen it, yet."

"Yeah, just a sec." Karen brings up the video without comment.

The speech begins almost immediately, with little input from the newsreaders. Vladimir's heartbeat grows faster, but his breathing remains slow and controlled. No snide comments, disbelieving scoffs, or terse criticism. Matt is a little baffled at the silence.

"What do you think?" Karen asks after it ends.

"I think I want to watch it again."

Karen obliges with another few clicks of the keyboard.

Vladimir asks after uncommon words – untold, coercion, mired – but doesn't offer his opinion, even when the video ends again. "And what are you going to do about this?" he asks.

"Before you hit Matt in the face with a door," Karen snipes, "he was going to speak to Vanessa. The woman standing by Fisk, in the video?"

Vladimir folds his arms and straightens his posture. "Who is she?"

"Who do you think?" Karen asks, closing the lid of the laptop.

"Girlfriend," Vladimir says. "I never heard…" he cocks his head to the side in consideration, but doesn't voice any thoughts.

"I'd better get going. And you'd better go home," Matt says, free hand patting the criminal's shoulder.

"Home?" Foggy echoes.

Matt winces, but doesn't get a chance to correct himself.

"You are going to speak to Vanessa, alone?" Vladimir asks, unfolding his arms.

"I want to get her talking, open up about Fisk. It'll be easier alone. And you- you certainly can't go," Matt laughs uncomfortably, backing towards the doorframe.

"Of course," Vladimir says, leaning close to whisper, "I'm not stupid, remember?" He reels back before Matt can, into his own personal space instead of the vigilante's. Without saying goodbye, he saunters out of the office, barely limping.

"I'd better go, too," Matt says, scrambling out the door and closing it behind him before the others can protest, or ask questions. "What-?" he calls as he stalks down the hallway. "You know what, you _are_ stupid. Did you really think you could just turn up here?"

"You didn't come home at midday, like you said. I saved you the trouble," Vladimir sneers, already slow pace halting by the stairwell. He sighs when he grips the handrail, leaning on it heavily.

"You can't- did you see how close that was to someone finding out something they shouldn't?" Matt gestures to the office door with his right hand, curled tightly around his cane, taking out his anger on it because things just _keep going wrong_.

"No. It was fine," Vladimir deadpans.

Matt laughs, cold and hollow, free hand settling on his hip out of habit. "It was _not_ fine. You can't just show up, uninvited-"

"Uninvited?" Vladimir parrots. "You work there, Matt."

"And you don't. Ergo, you're not welcome here. _You_ are not a part," Matt points despite the cane, first to Vladimir, and then to the office, "of this part of my life."

"This…?" Vladimir gapes, incredulous. "I thought- because you- we-"

Matt doesn't want to hear it; doesn't want to hear anything about 'friends', or 'caring', or trust or lies. This is his life, and if Vladimir's help means meddling, then he doesn't need it. Matt, Foggy, and Karen can handle Fisk through the legal route. He doesn't need some idiot with outdated criminal underbelly knowledge and a personal vendetta to trample over everything he's worked for.

"Whatever you thought, you thought wrong, okay? I've gotta go. Just go back to the apartment," he waves a hand dismissively, storming past the criminal.

Vladimir's heartbeat flutters as he goes to speak but can't find the words, stop-starting with vowels half a dozen times. " _Lgun_ ," he hisses after the retreating lawyer.

Matt takes the staircase as fast as he dares, at least in public, not out as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He keeps ahead of the injured man, and doesn't slow his pace when he's out the door and onto the sidewalk. He doesn't draw his focus back to where he's been, keeps his senses honed to the click-clack of his cane and the path ahead. Vladimir can take care of himself. Matt has things to do.

* * *

"Hello?" Vladimir answers the phone, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. That the caller could be Matt, grovelling – as much as _Matt_ could possibly grovel – for forgiveness for acting like such a jerk. For letting 'midday' pass without so much as a phone call, and no explanation waiting for him at the office.

" _Hey, Vince_ ," Foggy says, caught between practised telephone cheeriness and a sigh.

Vladimir rolls his eyes at the fake name. "Speaker?"

" _No, just, still at the office. Is Matt there?_ "

"No," Vladimir checks the time on the phone; just past five o'clock. "Not yet."

" _Listen, I heard some of what you and Matt said, in the hallway, earlier_ ," Foggy trails off, footsteps faint over the phone.

"And?" Vladimir asks, dropping the baking-soda-covered scrubbing brush to the stovetop. "He wants to talk, he can call himself," he swipes at his bruised nose with a sniff.

" _I haven't been able to get through to him. I don't know if he's still talking to Vanessa, or if he went to church or something… I just want to check on Matt, but he's not with you, so… can you text me, when he gets home?_ "

"Okay," Vladimir says with a sigh.

" _Okay, thanks. Look, whatever happens, with Matt… my only advice is to try to be patient. Anyway, bye,_ " Foggy says in a nervous rush.

"Goodbye," Vladimir hums and disconnects the call. He puts the phone back in his pocket, and scrutinises the stovetop. It's three-quarters clean, with one element to go. The oven awaits scrubbing, with baking soda already over the grease-stained spots. He couldn't find the cleaning products, but baking soda is cheaper, anyway. And he refuses to wait around for Matt, doing nothing.

With the radio on a talk-show station and several windows open, the apartment loses its damning silence. Vladimir goes back to cleaning, and passes the time that way with ease. The stovetop is scrubbed over again, the oven's spots cleared away and wiped with vinegar. He reorganises the fridge, because although it's not a mess, it's not _right_ , either. There's always something to be done.

* * *

"I can tell you're awake," Matt says above the jingle of his keys falling into their designated bowl.

Vladimir sighs, and gives up on controlling his breathing. "Maybe I'm trying to sleep."

Matt's footsteps echo faintly above the whispers of traffic from outside. He opens the door to his bedroom, leaving his shoes and bag there. "Do you want to eat now, or should I put your food in the fridge?" he asks as he pads toward the kitchen, socks muffling his steps.

Vladimir cracks an eyelid open at the mention of food. The sun has set in the time between turning the radio off and trying to sleep. Trying. "Now is good. Then sleep," he announces with a careful stretch of his back. He looks around – double-checking that he isn't just this side of stupid – to see that Matt has forgotten to turn the main-room lights on.

"You changed your bandage yet?" Matt pulls take-away containers from a branded plastic bag with Chinese text on it and sets them out. He pops the lids open to let steam waft away.

"No. I will, after dinner," the blond says. It's definitely a process to change it himself, but compared to stitching his own wounds, it's not a big deal.

Matt shakes his head as he rifles through a cutlery drawer. "I'll do it, it's fine," he offers.

Vladimir hums, and blinks against the darkness. It's never too dark, not even in the dead of the night with every light off, thanks to the light pollution and the infamous billboard. That's all right, now; the overhead fluorescents can get a bit irritating, anyway.

The billboard's display goes gold, changing its cast light from sky-blue gloom to a faux-warm glow. Matt sets the food on the small dining table, not bothering with crockery, and wanders over to the seat side of the couch.

"Want some help?" he asks.

Vladimir would like to refuse. His wrist is almost better, most of his bruises have faded away, and the painkillers dull the ache from the bullet wound. "Yes," he mutters all the same, raising his arms skyward to be hauled up.

"So," Matt huffs as the pair shuffle together along the narrow gap between the sofa and the coffee table, "why does the kitchen smell like baking soda?"

"It's clean," Vladimir explains.

Matt takes his arm from Vladimir's back, but keeps a hand on his shoulder as he takes a seat. "It was clean before," the lawyer says.

"It's cleaner," Vladimir amends, accepting the take-away container that's pushed toward him. Rice and meat is a good variation from sandwiches; it's good also for avoiding conversation. It's some kind of spiced pork with a medley of vegetables, but the aftertaste begs for teeth brushing to get rid of it. Vladimir settles for one of the glasses of water on the table, for now.

Matt smiles and doesn't ask any more questions. They eat in relative silence, since Vladimir forgot to close the windows, though he supposes the world is never really silent for Matt.

* * *

Vladimir is silent while Matt speaks. For the first time since they met, Matt wishes the criminal would interrupt him. While Matt ghosts his nitrile-gloved fingertips over the stitches, he recounts his trips to the church, and going to see Vanessa. He expects comments, questions – on the reality of the Devil, or about Vanessa, or Matt's reluctance/desire to kill Fisk – but receives none.

He's sure Vladimir would endorse Fisk's murder, to exact revenge. Vladimir had said that killing Fisk was the only way to stop him, the night they met. Today, Matt had been idly running through his counter-arguments during the walk home. But Vladimir doesn't voice a single opinion, not even a whisper. He lies idle on the sofa, in new pyjamas, teeth brushed hard enough to have his gums ooze blood in a spot or two.

The criminal doesn't seem too bothered by it, but then again, he doesn't seem like much of anything at the moment, except half-asleep.

Matt applies the new gauze with a little more force than necessary, but doesn't even get a wince. Not a change of expression, not through the new bandage and tape, the inventory of the other scrapes Vladimir suffered.

Matt gives up on waiting for a conversation when he packs away the medical kit. Earlier today, Vladimir had asked what Matt was going to do, in response to Fisk's speech. He doesn't need to ask, now, to figure out that Vladimir probably thinks the vigilante's actions aren't enough. That talking to Vanessa and having two moral crises were a waste of time. Maybe it's presumptive, but maybe it's simply logic. And look where Vladimir's logic got him.

"I'm going out on patrol, tonight," Matt says as he sheds his jacket and hangs it up. It's quiet enough that the couch-dweller must be able to hear him.

"Good luck," Vladimir mutters, then yawns.

"No advice?"

"No. Just luck," the blond says, volume dropping to a whisper, "you need it."

* * *

Things start looking up, ever-so-slightly. Vladimir keeps speech to a minimum in the morning, but Nelson & Murdock get another cheque, and a professional sign. Small, but awesome, Karen says.

They also get a phone call, which causes things to come crashing back down. Wednesday is a blur from then till the evening, for Matt. A swirling vat of rage and sorrow, bitter and bubbling just under his skin. He doesn't talk to Vladimir about it, and doesn't want to. To Vladimir, Elena Cardenas would be a meaningless cog in the machine. He wouldn't care, while Matt cares too much.

The bar is alive with chatter and drunks slurping drinks, friends laughing over inside jokes. Foggy is on the phone to the funeral home again, leaving Matt and Karen to scoff at Fisk's apparent regret over Ms. Cardenas' death, on the news.

"Well, then, let's pray the Mask gets his hands on him," Karen says, low. "Knocks his goddamn head off."

Matt winces, but covers it with a frown. "You religious, Karen?" he asks.

"My parents were," Karen informs her beer. "That's probably why I'm not. You?"

"Catholic," Matt says with a wan smile.

Karen sighs. "Does it help? With things like this?"

"Not today," Matt admits. He pushes his glass from the edge of the table to a more secure spot. "I think I've had enough. Tell Foggy I'll see him in the morning." He steps off the bar stool and hold his cane, ready to unfold it past the exit.

"Yeah," Karen says. "Hey, Matt?"

He pauses, a few feet from the table. "Yeah?"

"If there is a God… and if He cares at all about… about any of us… Fisk will get what he deserves. You have to believe that," Karen says, slow but determined.

Matt nods, "I do," and continues to walk out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The night air presses at his skin, sapping warmth and trading it for stray cigarette smoke and city smog.

 _The moment you put on the mask you got into cage with animals. Animals don't stop fighting. Not until one of them is dead._

Matt wasn't prepared to believe that when Vladimir said it a week ago. _He's just cynical_ , Matt thought, _dying will probably do that to a person_. But he believes it more every day, with every thing that goes wrong. Vladimir is right; it's kill or be killed. Fisk is an animal, ruthless and barbaric. A blight on the city, prepared to mow down anyone as means to an end. To his so-called 'Better Tomorrow', with him in charge.

Matt is done wasting time. He's going to kill Fisk, tonight.

* * *

Russian:  
Lgun / Лгун ~ Liar  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


	15. Still Waters

Vladimir doesn't know what it is about the windows that draw him to them. Perhaps they're the barrier between him and the outside world; angled so he can observe, but not be a part of it. Matt made that abundantly clear yesterday. Vladimir recalls Matt's apparent change of heart, between the morning and the evening. At breakfast, he looked conflicted; downcast frowns, almost-begun sentences. A hand on a shoulder, 'good morning's and 'goodbye's. This evening… something had happened during the day. Matt was worse than before. Closed-off body language, clipped exchanges, and a late arrival back.

He presses one hand to the glass, curls his fingers so his second knuckles touch it. He thought they were friends; that Matt cared about him. The denial stung, but it was a lie. Matt might have his lie-detector hearing, but Vladimir has been lied to enough in his life to recognise it. So he can wait for an apology, however long that takes. He might've done the wrong thing, but Matt started it, threw the first punch. Vladimir knows when it's best not to hit back.

Something falls against the upstairs door before the handle makes a squeaky turn. Vladimir looks to the door, waiting for the vigilante to wander in, tired but okay. After the events – or lack thereof – of this afternoon, he has no expectation of an apology.

The door opens and Matt falls through, barely staying on his feet.

"Matt?" Vladimir calls, stepping away from the window.

Matt's laboured breathing is the only answer he gives. He kicks the door shut and fumbles for the staircase's railing. He can barely seem to keep his feet under him, stumbling down one step, and then another.

The blond walks to the bottom stair, half-leant on the railing. "Come on, Matt. Don't fall," he says, beckoning. "Almost, almost."

With a few shuddering breaths, Matt does as he's told and clambers down the rest of the staircase. He doesn't lose momentum at the end, though, and pitches forward.

Vladimir's eyes go wide, but there's nothing he can do besides open his arms and catch the brunet. He staggers back, struggling to stay upright, and breath pushed out of his chest upon impact.

"Matt," he huffs, "I can't carry you." But he might have to. He digs his right shoulder under Matt's armpit and slings an arm around his back, hefting upwards. The free hand he places on Matt's chest does nothing to calm his breathing. Vladimir sighs, forced and a little panicked, trying to decide where to take the vigilante.

Vladimir makes up his mind when his left hand comes away from the shirt smeared with red. "Bathroom," he says, and takes a step in the right direction. He slogs through the pain – the protest of his muscles and the mostly closed bullet wound – from half-carrying a grown man.

Matt drags his feet; following along, but without the support would fall to the floor in a bloody heap.

Vladimir nudges the sliding door open with a socked foot and almost loses his balance. He regains it only by barging on until they reach the tub. He hooks his arms under Matt's and tries to get him to go into the empty bathtub.

"Go, come on," he says.

Matt complies, one leg in and then the other, so that Vladimir can lower him down. The criminal leaves Matt there to switch on the bathroom light and wash his hands, then hobbles back. He kneels on the bath mat, and sets about dealing with whatever-the-hell happened to draw this much blood.

Vladimir takes away the mask, not allowing his gaze to linger on the abrasions it hid, then unlaces a boot. One shoe gone, then the other, tossed over his shoulder and onto the floor.

Matt is in terrible condition. Red-streaked skin shows through the many tears in his clothes, his face is pale, and his eyes won't stay open. He stinks of river water and copper, so Vladimir intends to divest him of the infected clothes – all but the underwear, same as the dreaded sponge bath he only half-remembers – and wash all the cuts out. It's no easy feat to shuck away the tattered layers of clothes, trying not to knock Matt around too much.

"It's okay," Vladimir says as he wrestles the final wrist free of the torn shirt. The cuts on Matt's torso could be the worst since there are more of them, most still trickling crimson.

Vladimir turns on the tap, hoping the water won't take too long to heat up. The drain plug is out, so the cuts can be washed but not soaked.

Matt hisses when the cool water hits his thigh, scrambling half-heartedly to get away from it.

"Shh, I know," Vladimir consoles him, one hand on his shoulder and the other under the running water. He moves to cup his hands under the tap, collecting warm water to pour. The shower would be easier, but he doesn't have the strength to hold Matt up for long enough.

Muck and specks of dirt trail from almost every incision he drenches, each met with a fading wince. Most of them continue to ooze blood, but they're somewhat clean, at least. Matt blinks and gasps through the water that sluices over his face and head, pulling him back from falling asleep.

The buzzing, thrumming panic in Vladimir's chest coils tighter as he realises he has no idea where the first-aid kit is. He rises from beside the bathtub with a shake of his wet hands, crossing the room to wrench open cupboard doors and leave drawers open until he finds it. It's well stocked with gauze and bandages and tape, along with a small tube of iodine-based antiseptic cream.

Past the bandages, which he sets on the tiled floor by the tub, there is a suture kit in its own little bag. He puts it next to the bandages, and pauses. Crawls across the floor to Matt's discarded clothes to rifle through his pockets.

The vigilante's burner phone has Claire's number on it, and if she could come over and give some professional advice instead of-

The phone is dead, dripping water, and refusing to turn on. Vladimir drops it back onto the clothes and digs through his own pockets for his phone. After pressing a few buttons, he cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear, and shuffles to the tub to get started with the gauze.

The second the ringing stops, he speaks before the other line can. "Foggy! Where are you?" He reaches to grab a clean towel from the vanity cupboard and dabs at the cuts. Once he wipes away some of the blood, he gives each cut a smear of the antiseptic.

" _It's- it's two AM. I'm at my apartment, why?_ " Foggy says with a loud yawn.

Vladimir tears off a few strips of tape and secures several layers of gauze over a deeper cut on Matt's thigh. "Come here. Now."

" _I don't think I like your tone-_ " Foggy jokes.

"Matt is hurt. It's bad," Vladimir says, taping down gauze over another cut. "Come here. Soon as you can."

" _I- oh, shit. I'm- I'll be there in about ten minutes_."

"Hurry. Please."

" _Got it,_ " Foggy says before he hangs up.

Vladimir relaxes his shoulder and lets the phone fall to the floor. He can handle this. Stem the bleeding on the cuts, then go back and stitch all the ones that need it. Which - he piles more gauze over the thigh-wound that has already bled through the existing gauze - will likely be most of them. Normally he'd put pressure on a cut, but with so many, he's going to throw gauze on them all and hope that's enough until he can stitch them.

 _How did this happen?_

He wants to ask, but it's not important right now. It doesn't matter who did this, how someone – multiple someones, probably – got the drop on Matt, until he's stable. Vladimir gets a hand under one of Matt's shoulders and pulls, lifting him to sit up and hunch forward so the blond can get to the cuts on his back. He repeats the sparse taping of gauze over everything that's more than a scrape, making short work of it. He eases Matt back to half-lie down, back supported by the slope of the tub.

Vladimir leans close and holds the brunet's head in his hands, poking around softly, looking for hidden scrapes or bumps. Tries to ignore the cold, bloodless skin, the shallow breaths passing through paling lips. The shiner over one cheekbone, the laceration across the bridge of the nose. He sets Matt's head back against the porcelain, and, before he can think better of it, bestows a kiss on his forehead.

"You will be okay," Vladimir promises, then leans back. He grabs the suture kit and lays it out to pick a needle and absorbable-thread. The scissors in the first-aid kit look scalpel-sharp, adding a drop to the worry pooling in his chest. If Matt knocks them…

But Matt appears too out of it to move unless it's aiding being moved by someone else. No way he can knock the scissors from where Vladimir puts them on the edge of the tub.

He eyes the twin cuts that run parallel to Matt's collarbone, one lower than the other. He peels away half of the specks of tape securing gauze over one of them, leaving the gauze to hang from the lower tape. Needle and thread at the ready in the needle-driver, hands steady as can be, he pauses.

"Ready?" he asks, not expecting a coherent answer.

"Yeah," Matt says, just a whisper of an exhale.

"Good." Vladimir pushes the tiny, curved needle in at a ninety-degree angle at one end of the wound. He catches the needle with the forceps in his left hand, readjusts, and slides it through the skin on the other side. He grabs the needle again, pulls it through. Ties a surgeon's knot over it, once, twice, and then begins the next stitch.

Continuous stitching is faster than interrupted, and time is a more pressing issue than travelling infection. He gets lost in the clicking of the needle-driver every time he adjusts it; pretends that it drowns out Matt's quiet gasps of pain.

He tackles the cut lower on Matt's abdomen next, several inches above his right hip. Red bleeds from the wound as he stitches it closed, smearing across his fingertips and the surgical utensils. But it's all Matt's blood, and Vladimir doesn't have time to clean everything between each cut. Bloody hands are no big deal.

He's tying off the snug stitching on that nasty thigh-wound, body craned over the side of the tub to get at it, when the front door clicks open and then shut.

"Hey, it's just me," Foggy calls, out of breath. He probably speed-walked the whole way here.

"Here," Vladimir hollers back, as though the bathroom isn't the only room in the apartment with a light on. He spares a glance over his shoulder as Foggy dithers by the doorjamb to the bathroom. Foggy is dressed in crumpled slacks, old sneakers, and a button-up with the buttons done up wrong.

"Oh God, are you-? You're stitching him up?" he asks, taking a few hesitant steps forward.

Vladimir shoots him a glare, then turns back to check over the freshly stitched thigh-wound. "Yes, Foggy, that is what you do when someone is cut, like this." He moves onto the second twin-cut on Matt's chest. The vigilante shows no sign that he knows Foggy arrived. But he's still breathing well enough, so Vladimir lets him rest.

"No, I mean, _you_. Doesn't Matt have that nurse-friend, Claire? Is she busy?" Foggy asks as he moves to stand by the far end of the tub.

"Matt's phone is dead. Water," Vladimir says as he ties off the initial knot in the thread.

"Water? What was Matt doing in the water?"

"I don't know. Smelled like river," Vladimir answers, more detached than annoyed. Too much of his focus is on Matt to bother getting snappy.

Foggy wrings his hands and shifts his weight from foot to foot, agitated. "I could try the phone again? Or call the hospital, see if she's there…" he suggests.

"Don't. I can do this," the criminal pushes the needle through for the final suture of this cut, threading it into a knot. With a calm breath, he repositions the gauze over the incision and adds a bandage. He zeroes in on another, smaller incision elsewhere on Matt's torso, gets more thread, and sets to work again.

"I…" Foggy trails off, with a hint of something like awe. "Yeah, I guess you can. Is there… what can I do?"

"Glass of water, for Matt," Vladimir suggests, if only to give Foggy something to do.

"Yeah, okay, glass of water," Foggy says, and hurries out of the room.

It's slow, tedious work. It can't be rushed, supplemented, or skipped. It can't take any less than the majority of his focus. So he continues along with the click-clack of the needle-driver, the snick of the scissors with each cut of the thread.

"Got it," Foggy says when he returns, setting the glass on the vanity with a _clink_. "How'd this happen?"

"I don't know." Vladimir begins to stitch up the final cut on Matt's chest, dreading the ones on his back. "He came home like this."

"Shit. I don't know how someone could've done this with a knife. Don't people usually use switchblades for gutting, not…? Not slashes."

"Maybe we will wait and ask Matt, hm?" Vladimir says, concentration limited to the needle as it pierces clammy skin, catching it with the forceps.

"Yeah, okay," Foggy concedes. He walks around to sit at the end of the tub by Matt's feet, observing his best friend with a forlorn expression. He looks a little green under the fluorescent light.

They sit in near-silence until Vladimir sets down the suture utensils to tape up the gauze and bandage once more.

"Done?" Foggy asks hopefully.

"No. Cuts on his back," Vladimir says. He stands to ease the ache in his legs, moving closer to the end of the tub. "If I move him to sit up, you hold him, yes?" he asks. He shouldn't have moved Matt to hunch over in the first place, really, considering the wounds on his chest. This time, it could split the sutures.

"Yes," Foggy agrees, shuffling to the middle of the side of the bathtub, arms reaching over the edge ready to catch the brunet.

"Matt," Vladimir says as he gets one hand under each shoulder, "going to move."

Matt groans in pain at the push, uncooperative and half-asleep.

"Last time, then you can go to bed, get better, okay?" Vladimir reassures him in a hushed tone. He shoves as hard as he dares, lifting Matt's back from the porcelain so he sits forward.

Foggy catches him, an arm across his collarbones, and wavers for a second before getting him steady.

"You hold him there," Vladimir says as he peels away the first of three gauze pads on Matt's back. "Or the stitch will be wrong."

"No, I got him," Foggy says with a nod.

Vladimir repeats the procedure, ignoring the curious, wary glances thrown at him. Sutures, gauze, bandage, more tape. One, two, three. These cuts are small, so they don't take as long. He sets everything down, waiting to be cleaned, then sets his right hand against Matt's spine. Blood and tattoos contrast the subtle knobs of vertebrae, framed by pallid skin and paler bandages.

"All done?" Foggy asks.

"Yes," Vladimir sighs. He takes his hand away and pushes off the tub to stand. "In a moment, lift Matt, and walk him to bed. I will get a towel, so…"

"So he doesn't bleed everywhere?" Foggy supplies.

Vladimir nods and locates a black towel. He stalks ahead of the pair and lays the towel down in the middle of the bed – so if Matt rolls, he isn't going to fall off – over the duvet and pillows.

It's a joint effort to get Matt onto the towel, but they manage it. Foggy heaves a sigh, stepping away from the bed.

"Um, you still have blood," Foggy hesitates with a gulp, "on your hands."

"I will clean. You watch him," Vladimir says, fingers idly rubbing against one another. The blood is already congealed, dry in spots, but tangible regardless.

"Okay," Foggy takes a hesitant seat at the edge of the bed.

The criminal goes back to the bathroom, and turns the tap to rinse the blood away. His once-steady hands jerk at the sight; crimson trailing away with the sluice of cold water. He scrubs at the more stubborn blood, heel of one hand brushing at the red. The bloodstains on rough patches, droplets in crevices, caked under nails, everywhere, everywhere. With a shaky breath and red-raw but clean hands, he turns off the tap.

Foggy mumbles to Matt in the next room; a half-hearted chuckle, soothing words.

Vladimir sets about collecting the old tape and off-cuts of bandages, the cheap hand-towel he used to pat away the water. He washes the utensils with soap and warm water, and packs up the unused supplies.

Once the bathroom is back in order - save for the first-aid kit on the vanity, ready for further action - Vladimir slumps against the wall by the door. He lets his legs weaken, t-shirt riding up at the back as he slides down the wall. A quiet sob escapes his lips as he sits on the tiled floor, drawing his knees up close to his chest.

Brain no longer on autopilot, it should be flooded with questions, but it's all too blank. He plucks at one shoulder of his t-shirt, pinching it up to wipe at his too-wet eyes, grey fabric turning dark.

Barely ten words spoken between them all day - yesterday, technically - and now this. He should've just apologised first, should've tried to talk things out instead of push Matt away. That wasn't patience, that was silence. Ignoring the problem.

It's not his fault, but he can still feel Matt's blood on his skin all the same. Blood is no big deal; everyone has it, sometimes it gets spilt, who cares? But there were - are - just so many cuts, blood soaked through fabric, dozens of stitches…

Is this what Matt had ended up like, when he tried to rescue the kidnapped boy? 'Dead, for sure.' 'Crawled off somewhere to lick his wounds.' 'Won't last till morning.'

What's another scar or twenty? Perhaps Matt should reconsider his current get-up; don't the real superheroes have armour? Or someone to watch their backs?

He thinks of this and nothing; anything, to get Matt's skin, all cut to ribbons and painted with blood, from his mind's eye.

"Hey, Vladimir?" Foggy calls. "Could you grab a blanket or another towel or something? It's a bit cold, and I don't think this duvet could handle blood on it."

The only blankets in the apartment that he knows of are the musty old one and the blanket that's certainly designed for babies. Or, children in general, since it's a full-size blanket. Vladimir goes for the latter; the old one needs to be thrown away, or burned. He rises on tired legs, pushing off the wall to lumber out of the room. He grabs the blanket from the end of the couch and then goes to the bedroom.

Matt is still as death save for the rise-and-fall of his chest, pale skin sallow thanks to the yellowish, sodium streetlights.

Foggy stands by the bed, brows set into a deep frown, arms useless by his sides. He takes a step back, out of the way.

Vladimir's grateful; he doesn't want to speak over the lump in his throat, and he's too tired to elbow anyone out of his way. He puts one end of the blanket over Matt's feet, shuffles the fabric so it covers him up to his shoulders. Matt looks just this side of ridiculous, with bruises and abrasions on his face, and a quilt with cartoon elephants on it over him.

"I know you're probably planning to go for that whole, 'unbroken vigil' thing, but you need your sleep too," Foggy suggests.

Vladimir doesn't bother with a glare. "No, I have to watch… to check for more bleeding," he folds his arms over his chest and keeps his gaze on Matt.

"I know, I know, keep watch. But you look like you're about to pass out, yourself, and then what am I supposed to do if both of you are out of commission?"

Vladimir hates to admit it, but he is… somewhat unsteady on his feet. Swaying, maybe. Fatigued, no doubt. "Okay," he says, and turns to nod. "You watch. And you wake me if-"

"If Matt wakes up, or bleeds, or if something's wrong. I get it. You get some sleep," Foggy says, moving one arm in lazy gesture to the couch.

Vladimir nods in lieu of a proper answer, and trails out of the room. He called Foggy for a reason; Matt would prefer his best friend to be here.

Matt wakes, somewhat numb, and unsure of when he fell asleep. As his eyes blink open, the numbness ebbs away to make room for sharp snaps of pain. Each breath brings a flurry of pinpricks and lashings of phantom slashes, deadened limbs waking up tendon by tendon to paw at the sources of pain. He can't help but gasp in pain when his left hand finds a nasty cut on his side, covered in gauze and bandages. Laced with thread. Stitches-?

"Hey, hey, I wouldn't do that, buddy," Foggy says, hand landing on Matt's shoulder.

When did Foggy get here? Since before Matt went to sleep, after being stitched up. How long ago was that?

"You stitched me up?" Matt says, hand falling to his side under the blanket, useless. "Or, Claire?"

"No," Foggy shakes his head, "that was Vladimir. He did a good job, too, from what I can tell. I think he went to sleep, but… I'll go get him for you."

"Foggy," Matt reaches to catch his best friend's wrist. "Thank you, for being here. You didn't have to. And I know-" he trips over his words, half-slurred from sleep.

"Hey, save the dramatic speech for when you're not gonna pass out, huh?" Foggy says with a laugh. His footsteps are barely audible over the white noise of the city, fuzzy through the walls and the haze of fatigue.

Time passes without distinction – a few seconds, a whole minute, how many breaths? – and eventually the vigilante is no longer alone. He expects both of the others to return, but one heartbeat remains in the living room, while the other comes from somewhere on the bed beside him.

"Hey, Vladimir," Matt whispers, so soft that it may not have been heard. "I…"

Vladimir's anxious heart beats a little faster, its owner leaning closer. The pillow dips by the brunet's head, a hand steadying Vladimir's descent to his orbit.

With a twist of his neck, Matt knocks his temple against Vladimir's. "Gotcha," he says with a strained chuckle. "Remember?"

Vladimir laughs wetly and moves to sit upright, back against the headboard. "You're okay?"

"That's one way to look at it," Matt sobers at the smell of his blood on the hand that reaches for his own, the events of tonight and the previous day rushing back. "I'm sorry, for what I said," he mutters, shuffling his right arm from beneath the blanket – the new one, he realises – to offer his hand.

"No, I…" Vladimir says, sighs as their fingers lace together. "Thank you. I'm sorry, too. I will not do that again, okay? And you will think before you speak, hm?" He gives Matt's hand a squeeze, fingertips pressing against bruised knuckles.

Despite – or maybe because of – the ache in his bones and the white-hot pain of the cuts, Matt feels ready to fall back asleep. "Yes," he says, breathless.

"If you're okay, go to sleep again. Please."

"Yeah, okay," Matt agrees, again. "Goodnight." Sleep means he doesn't have to think about his mistakes, or the warmth spreading in his chest, settling under his stitched-up skin. With a soft sigh, he closes his eyes, relaxes his hand but doesn't let go, and drifts.


	16. To Open Any Door

A cell phone rings. Matt, who had insisted on being moved to the couch for breakfast, whines at the obnoxious sound. He kicks his feet tiredly in discomfort, but is stopped by a handle on his ankle.

"Don't kick me," Vladimir says, "is Foggy's phone."

"Sorry." Matt forgot that his feet and calves are on the criminal's lap. To be fair, he's been swimming in and out of consciousness for at least half an hour now, while the others had eaten breakfast. Matt tried to eat, but could only stomach a piece of toast. He coughed up most of the events of last night well enough though. There were the thugs, junkie, looking for Fisk, fighting Nobu, trying to fight Fisk, a gun pointed to his head, and a jump out a window. Or, through a window.

Vladimir breathes in like he's about to say something, but doesn't get the chance.

"Hello?" Foggy says, when he finds his phone.

Matt can't tell who it is. His senses are still mucked-up from residual shock, fatigue, and blood loss, and it's not worth the strain to try.

"Oh, yeah, I- Matt's sick, with a fever. Hopefully, it's a twenty-four-hour thing. But he collapsed, um, against the exposed brick in his apartment, so he's a bit bruised-up. Vince was getting worried, so he called me, and I came over," Foggy says, free hand setting his mug on the coffee table.

So, it must be Karen. Shit, what time is it? Foggy should have left by now. Karen must be worried, or confused, at least-

"No, that's fine, it's fine," Foggy says as he scratches idly at the fabric of the chair. "I'm going to go into the office, in about half an hour… No, Matt's fine to stay here with Vince. But, maybe you and I can visit again, after work?"

Vladimir shifts, agitated; shoulders squared and heart rate quickening. Yeah, Karen visiting isn't the best thing, for any of them.

"Great. See you soon," Foggy says, cheerier than before. He sighs when he hangs up, and pockets the phone.

"And?" Matt asks, eyebrows raised. _What'd she say?_

"And, what? I didn't want to lie, but…" Foggy says, scratching at the crown of his head. "No, I won't tell her how you got diced up by some ninja… who was it, again?"

Matt clears his throat. "A man they called 'Nobu'. He was in charge of the New York group of the Yakuza."

"No," Vladimir interrupts.

"No?"

"It's not 'Ya-koo-za', it's 'Yah-ku-za'," Vladimir scoffs at the mispronunciation. He pushes Matt's feet off his lap and stands up from the couch.

"Hey, where are you going?" Foggy asks.

Vladimir doesn't deign to answer, stalking to the laundry nook. He opens the cupboard there and rifles around, knocking over spray bottles of cleaning fluid.

Matt cocks his head to the side, listening. "Why are you getting the mop out?" he calls.

"You spilled blood on the floor," Vladimir says as he throws the mop bucket onto the floor, "and in the bath."

Foggy scoffs as he gets to his feet. "And you're going to mop the whole apartment?"

"The whole floor, yes," Vladimir announces as he emerges from the laundry nook, mop and towel under one arm and bucket in hand. His walking pace has improved from a shuffle to almost loping across the apartment.

Matt figures that cleaning might be a stress reliever, for Vladimir. Matt recalls that the blond scrubbed down the stovetop and cleaned the fridge when he was refusing to talk, the day before yesterday. After Matt snapped at him, of course.

"I haven't had enough coffee for this," Foggy mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'd better go. I told Karen I'd be there… and who knows, maybe we'll get another client today? Thursday's a lucky day, right?" he laughs.

The kitchen tap turns on, cool water turning hot as it runs more.

"Maybe," the brunet smiles. "Thank you, again."

"Hey, don't thank me, thank the crazy person who wants to mop your apartment," Foggy waves to the kitchen. "Seriously, though, I- this is going to take a lot to get used to. But you told me the truth, and you're still my best friend, so I'm going to do my best."

Matt's smiles brightens, his unease ebbing away. "I'm glad," he beams.

"Oh, get your hopeful puppy-dog eyes away from me," Foggy says, shrugging on his hoodie. He checks the laces on his sneakers, then moves to leave. "See you later, buddy. Feel better."

"Thanks. See you," Matt says with a weak wave, immeasurably glad despite the aching sting of the cuts. "Vladimir, you forgot the floor cleaner," he hollers. He chuckles at the muttered curse he gets in response and settles further into the couch cushions.

* * *

At the cupboard, Vladimir pauses. He sets the mop handle against the wall, and eases open a cupboard door. There are a few shelves with miscellaneous objects – a tiny printer and odd stacks of paper, office supplies, cardboard boxes higher up – and a chest at the bottom. He glances back at Matt, hoping he can't be heard above the brunet's terribly soft snores.

It's not snooping. Vladimir is cleaning, and this cupboard is at least twelve percent dust. He kneels in front of the open door to pull the chest out; enough to flip the latch and open the lid.

Red, satiny material, emblazoned with a sports moniker emblazoned. _Battlin' Jack Murdock_. This must have belonged to Matt's father. A boxer, didn't he say? Past the robe are old boxing gloves, clipped-up newspaper articles, and-

Vladimir's fingers hit the bottom of the chest, but it's barely halfway to what it should be. The bottom is plywood while the box is something like oak. He sets each object back in the box, lifts the inserted tray from the chest.

Beneath it lays spare masks. This must be were Matt stores his vigilante getup; right now, the boots sit by the washing machine where it churns the bloodied, ripped clothes. Vladimir doesn't know if he can salvage the shirt, but the pants and mask are fine.

Here, there sits a ski mask, a bandana, a mask like the one Matt usually wears, and a few other scraps of cloth. He plucks out the balaclava, holds it up. Not as stylish as Matt's mask, but it has eyeholes, at least. He rubs the thick fabric between his fingertips, considering.

Investigating what happened at the restaurant Anatoly went to would be impossible as himself. In a mask though…

Matt lets out a low whine, the leather of the couch squeaking as he shifts.

Vladimir sets the balaclava aside and replaces the insert tray within the chest. Eases it shut, flips the latch, and rises to his feet. Asking questions would be one thing. Impersonating the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is another. He can ask Matt to investigate once the vigilante heals.

He shuts the cupboard doors and grabs the mop. Continues his path around the apartment, dragging the bucket along with a foot. Matt has enough things to worry about. Answers can wait.

* * *

Matt feels like a child with a tummy ache, munching on water-crackers, light-headed with pain. A caregiver hovering nearby, perched in an armchair, legs crossed.

"Have you thought about armour?" Vladimir asks. He's occupied with needlework; sewing box on the coffee table and the tattered shirt in his lap, salvaging its remains.

"It'd slow me down," Matt says. Claire has mentioned his before; it would affect his fighting technique too much if he were weighed down by plating. Matt is reclined against the arm of the couch, not sitting up, but comfortable enough.

Vladimir laughs. "You were slow yesterday," he says, tone warping to something bitter, "cut to pieces."

Matt takes another bite of a cracker from the box in his lap. He remembers. Can feel the thread beneath his skin, binding back together the sliced flesh.

"You know of no armour, that would not slow you down?" the blond asks, slicing the excess thread off of a knot.

"I thought I didn't. But, last night, when I fought Fisk, he was wearing some kind of lightweight armour. I didn't even know it what there until I slashed him," Matt wets his lips, then reaches for the glass of water on the coffee table. "Tried to slash him," he amends. "Know anything about that?"

"No," Vladimir shakes his head. "But Turk Barrett might know. He lied to me, that it was you who killed my brother; he works for Fisk, and others." He holds up the shirt to survey it, the many rips he's repaired.

"I'll track him down, then. Tomorrow," Matt says. He might be injured right now, but he doesn't have the time to take more than a few days off. Not since Fisk stooped low enough to arrange Ms. Cardenas' murder.

Vladimir folds up the shirt, stows away the needle and thread. "If you are better tomorrow, yes. But-"

Matt fumbles with the water glass, sputtering as it runs in rivulets down his chin and neck. "Shit," he mutters as he sets the glass back on the table.

"Is water on your cuts?" Vladimir demands, throwing the mended clothes to the floor and scrambling to his feet.

"No, no," Matt waves him away, other hand pawing at the water on his neck, far from the cuts on his chest.

Vladimir walks past the couch, a hand brushing the lawyer's shoulder as he goes, to the kitchen. "You want more food?" he asks, already rummaging through cupboards.

"No, maybe later," Matt says, reaching for another cracker.

Someone knocks at the door with a heaving sigh, foot tapping against the floor, the scent of hand-cream wafting under the door. Claire. Matt didn't think she'd be all that interested in moisturisers, but apparently washing your hands a hundred times a day dries them out.

"Hello?" she calls.

Vladimir is already striding to the sideboard to snatch a key ring from the bowl there. He tries one key, then another, before the pins align.

"You're looking better," Claire says.

Vladimir pulls the door open wider and steps aside. "I feel better. Matt does not."

Claire wanders across the room and sets her medical kit on the coffee table. "Damn," she winces, "that's one hell of a shiner." She turns to Vladimir. "You said he has a lot of cuts?"

"Yes, his chest, and back, and one on leg. Uh, a leg,"

"Alright, well, let's take a look," Claire announces, "and hope I don't have to re-stitch too many of them."

Matt expects a protest at that – the stitches feel just fine, and Vladimir seemed to know what he was doing – but hears none. Instead, Vladimir takes away the water-cracker box and throws it on the coffee table, then pulls away the blanket.

"Sit up, arms up," he mutters, shucking the t-shirt off when Matt does so.

"Wow," Claire says. She crouches and takes a disposable glove from her kit. "That's a lot of cuts," she murmurs, pulling one bandage off to see the cut underneath. It's one of the twin cuts on Matt's chest, long but shallow.

"Is okay?" Vladimir asks from where he's wandered to the other side of the couch, a hand on Matt's bare shoulder.

"Yeah, it looks even. Continuous stitching spreads infection more easily than interrupted, but if you keep them clean, you should be safe." Claire puts the bandage back in place, checks another one. "The bite width is a little big, but the stitches aren't too tight, so… I hate to admit it, but you did a good job," she says.

"Thank you," Vladimir says, politer than usual. His grip on Matt's shoulder tightens, the heel of his hand pressing in against the sore muscles there.

Matt doesn't shiver, but it's a close thing.

"Are you done?" Vladimir asks.

"Sure," Claire shrugs as she puts tape back in place, then peels off her glove and crumples it into a ball. "That looks like it was… pretty nasty to deal with. It's nice to know I'm not the only person you'll let give a shit about you, Matt."

"I told my best friend, Foggy, about all this," Matt says, raising his arms again when the shirt is held out for him. "He was here this morning. Or, uh, it's still morning, so-"

"Morning?" Claire pauses packing up her kit to check her watch. "It's afternoon, now. Despite that, you're lucid enough that whatever blood you lost, you must be regenerating. It's gonna take a few days before you can go back out there. I'd recommend a week, but I get the feeling you won't listen to that."

Matt chuckles as he pulls the shirt down, then lies back. "I can try," he says weakly.

"Well, no fighting, no moving too much, lots of sleep, good food, don't get the cuts wet," Claire rattles off the usual recommendations, standing up straight. "Get body armour, or something. I know you've got him," she waves to Vladimir, "but stitches do not a medical professional make. You really need to ease up, or he'll be stitching a corpse next time around." She sighs and brushes a stray lock of her from her face. "I have to get going. I need to pack."

"Pack?" Matt echoes with a frown.

"Yeah," Claire says. "I'm taking some time off, gonna get out of the city for a while."

"I'm sorry you got pulled back into this," Matt admits, reaching the blanket to pull it up again. When his grip slips, Vladimir helps.

Claire laughs. "At least I got-" she says, but cuts herself off. "Hmm. Look, I'll always be there when you really need me to patch you up. Beyond that…"

"Yeah," Matt already knows nothing can happen between them. It's already been decided, and he doesn't particularly want to change that.

"You know," Claire says as she picks up her bag and takes a step away, "the only thing I remember from Sunday school is the martyrs… the saints, the saviours. They all end up the same way; bloody… and alone."

"He's not alone," Vladimir says quietly.

Claire hums. "Not anymore," she admits, probably smiling. "Bye, you two."

* * *

It's almost five o'clock when the sun disappears, after hours wherein Vladimir poured over the musty old road directory, cleaned, and slept. It was odd, to sleep in the bed without its owner there, but Matt had insisted on staying on the couch, even though Vladimir can help him walk around. That was weird, too, to be helping Matt instead of the other way around.

Claire left hours ago, and Matt has been sleeping on-and-off since then. Now, Vladimir can leave. He doesn't want to leave Matt here all alone, but…

Vladimir has to do this for himself. He has to know what happened at the restaurant, for sure; if Vanessa was there, if that's why Fisk killed his brother. But she has to know now, so why would she be upset?

He shakes his head as if to clear it, and secures the tie of the trousers above his hips. The mending of the shirt holds up when Vladimir pulls it on over his head. He puts his arms through the sleeves and yanks the fabric down over his double-bandaged wound.

It fits well enough; looser than on Matt, thank God. A week without exercise – thanks, bullet wound – isn't the end of the world, but he's lean where Matt is muscular, so he could run the risk of looking scrawny in tight clothes. He shouldn't worry about it, he knows; it won't be a public appearance, just asking a couple of questions and booking it home. Back to Matt's apartment, not home. Home is… is it here? If not here, then where?

 _For now_ , Vladimir tells himself, _it can be here._

He picks up the balaclava, slips it over his head, and breathes through where he sewed the mouth shut. It looked dumb, open. It still looks dumb, from the reflection he sees in the mirror. He tears off the mask to set it down by the gloves, and trudges out of the bathroom. A drink of water, and then he can go. Maybe then, his hands will stop their tremors.

* * *

Matt's lucidity waxes and wanes, sometimes. He can achieve states of deep sleep and relative alertness, but for most of today he's been half-asleep, mind full of cobwebs.

Footsteps pad across the living room, from one end to the other. They sound heavy. Shoes? Why would Vladimir wear shoes? Matt must be hearing things, misinterpreting the cacophony of outside with the silence of the apartment.

Water from the tap runs, then stops, noise replaced by soft gulping sounds. An empty glass is set on the counter, and the footsteps begin again.

"Are you going somewhere?" he calls, voice raspy from sleep.

"Of course not," Vladimir brushes him off, heartbeat steady as he paces past him to the bedroom.

But no, that's not right. Something still isn't right. "Is something wrong?" Matt asks, moving to sit up. "What's wrong?"

Vladimir stops walking away, shoulders tense as he turns to face the brunet. He crosses the space between them once more, to kneel by the end of the couch. "You are hurt, that's what's wrong. Rest," he says, a hand on Matt's left shoulder, nudging him to lie back down.

"You're walking well, now," Matt offers a small smile, thoughts muddled as he lays back.

"A Christmas miracle," Vladimir says drily, thumb dipping below the neckline of Matt's shirt to ghost over a collarbone.

Matt gives him a quizzical look. "It's not Christmas. It's November."

"For now," Vladimir muses, hand stilling. "Is-? Are all of your stitches okay? You did not move too much?"

Matt blinks for a few moments, taking stock of all the pieces of thread, trying to find any gaps or snaps. It takes a few deep breaths, but he can feel most of them well enough. "Yeah. They're all intact."

"Good." Vladimir's thumb traces the hollow of the vigilante's throat, fingers at the side of his neck.

The lingering touch sends shivers over Matt's chest, his breaths too short, face too warm. He can feel Vladimir's gaze on him, and wishes that his sleep-addled mind could think of something to keep the conversation going.

"Vladimir," is all he manages.

The criminal trails his hand higher, to cup Matt's jaw. "Go back to sleep," he mumbles, and takes his hand away.

Matt's head lolls to the side, not- not _chasing_ his hand, just out of exhaustion, dammit. Sleep doesn't sound so bad, right now.

Vladimir's footsteps fade away as he scales the stairs and goes through the roof access door, leaving Matt alone with his thoughts. That's alright. Space is okay. Matt takes deep breaths of air that seem to be lacking enough oxygen, blinking his eyes shut. He ignores the worried flutter of his heartbeat, the quiet voice is in his head that insists something is off; that there's enough 'space' in the apartment.

But after being mended yesterday– or was it very early this morning? – with unwavering attention and care, he can't bring himself to be anything but grateful.

* * *

Vladimir slumps against a dumpster, an arm on the lid and the other around his side. He took a wrong turn in one of the many backstreets he traversed to get here, and so had to double-back.

He feels like an imposter, like a fool in stolen skin. Some people call the Devil of Hell's Kitchen a hero, and here Vladimir is, dressed as the Mask, save for that identifying garment. What a joke.

He squints at the front door to the restaurant from across the street. It's an expensive place; French, from the name: _Brasserie_. All concrete and metal on the outside, down-lights and elegant, minimalistic signage. Sleek, expensive cars are parked outside and in the tiny lot behind it.

Heavy breaths puff against the sewn-up balaclava, warm against the chill that's seeped into his clothes and skin from the night air. He pushes off the dumpster and retreats into the alley. Keeps to the walls as he goes along this side of the street for a little while before crossing.

It's not the dead of night by any means, but it has to be bordering on six PM, and the streets are dead enough. The odd car and clusters of pedestrians are easy enough to avoid by ducking into alcoves or alleyways.

The bullet wound throbs with each beat of his heart, but it's not painful. This is fine. He can keep going. Vladimir trails around the perimeter of the small parking lot until he reaches the side of the restaurant building with a side-door. It says 'Emergency', or something. There's an employee taking a smoke break. Vladimir grins behind the mask. Now all he has to do is wait until one of the wait-staff finishes their shift and leave, so he can drag them into a backstreet and get some answers. He retreats a little further into the closest alleyway and crouches behind a trash can, ears pricked up for movement behind him.

Barely five minutes later, as the waitress crushes her cigarette butt under her booted heel, the door opens. A young man exits, out of uniform, a bag on his shoulder. He and the waitress exchange a nod of acknowledgement before he trails off into the parking lot.

Vladimir rises to stand up straight, and stalks over before he can be seen.

The kid looks up from fishing for his car keys a moment before Vladimir is there, grabbing him by the collar and dragging.

"Hey," the kid protests, arms flailing.

"Be quiet," Vladimir snarls. "Or I'll break your hand." He pushes the kid away so that he stumbles into the alleyway, the criminal right behind him.

"Oh shit," the waiter says, backing away, shaking hands raised in surrender. "I didn't do anything!"

"I just want information," Vladimir says slowly, careful to lessen his accent. "Two weeks ago, Thursday. Wilson Fisk was here." He straightens his posture as he takes a step forward, left arm braced against the kid's collarbones, crowding him against the alley wall.

The kid gapes like a fish as the blood rushes leaves his face. "The- the restaurant was full! I don't know-"

Vladimir presses his arm higher, against the kid's throat. "Don't lie to me."

"Alright, alright, yeah," the waiter nods frantically, eyes looking anywhere but Vladimir's. His feet scrabble against the ground where he tries to edge back, but there's nowhere to go. "I wasn't his server, but I was working. I recognised him on the news, a few days later. He's a philanthropist, what'd you wanna know?"

 _Now_ they're getting somewhere. Vladimir feared he'd catch someone who wasn't working that night, but it seems he's finally managed to catch some luck. "Was he alone?" He lowers his arm just enough so the kid can breathe a little easier, and braces his free hand against the wall.

The waiter blinks, frowning. "He had security-"

"A date," Vladimir snaps, "did he have a date?"

"Yeah, uh, brown hair, his age, um, pretty? The same one that was on the TV with him," the kid says, tone hopeful, his shaking hands lowering.

"And they were interrupted?" the criminal suggests, gloved fingers curling against the bricks.

The waiter shakes his head with a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper. "I can't tell you…" he stutters.

Vladimir slams his left forearm upward so the kid's teeth clack together, and puts solid pressure on the windpipe. "You will," he hisses.

The kid gasps for air, one hand weakly clawing at the arm at his throat. "Okay, fine," he croaks.

The criminal eases up, snatching his arm away.

After a few wheezing breaths, the kid straightens up. "Some guy ran in," he explains, "got past the security to say something about accepting a deal. I think he spooked the date, real bad. Fisk and the lady and a heap of security rushed out of there, took the guy with them."

Vladimir nods when the kid tries to ramble on. "That's enough," he barks. "You tell no-one that I talked to you, or you will be sorry. Okay?" he shakes out his fist to emphasise the point.

"Okay, okay, I get it, you're the-" the waiter coughs, and readjusts the strap of his backpack, "you're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. I won't say anything." He shakes his head at such a notion.

The satisfied warmth in Vladimir's chest slows its spread, turning cold. "Good. Get out of here," he jerks his head towards the mouth of the alleyway.

The kid scrambles away, running into a dumpster on his way out.

Vladimir snickers. That went well. He got the answer he was looking for, with no good reason for the waiter to have lied.

He's halfway home, walking across a rooftop to avoid the homeless people in the alleyway, when a scream reaches his ears. A piercing shriek, nearby. He continues to the edge of the rooftop and jumps down onto the fire escape.

Another cry. Vladimir has to squint in the darkness to make out the figures in the backstreet below; two, crowded around a third, sobbing loudly. His stomach churns as his eyes go wide. A mugging? Assault? Deal gone bad? He doesn't know, and doesn't care.

But Matt would, his mind nags. And right now, he's dressed as Matt's vigilante persona, except with a slightly different mask. Shit, have they seen him? He's been standing here too long.

The victim, a woman, lashes out. Her flailing arms make little contact with her attackers; she's not a trained fighter, then. She can't handle them on her own.

Vladimir clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on the metal railing. It'll take too much time to figure out another route home, he tells himself. He descends the staircase, steps careful and measured, no extra energy to waste.

He drops from the ladder to a dumpster twenty feet from the scuffle. He drops down and crouches out of sight, trying to catch his breath, calm his nerves. No big deal. There's enough light to see by from the street lamps, but none so close that they'd be able to get a good look at him.

This won't take long. He stands and walks towards them, speed increasing the closer he gets.

Some might call it dishonourable to hit someone when their back is turned. To be fair, the guy is mid-turn when Vladimir socks him on the jaw. The other guy's eyebrows shoot up to the edge of his beanie as he stumbles back.

Punched Guy – Nose, Vladimir changes the nickname upon seeing how messed up the facial feature in question is – quickly recovers with a lunge and a curse, fist flying.

Vladimir dodges, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet. He steps forward to punch Beanie Guy in the gut. Left-handed, sure, but it gleans a surprised 'oof' all the same.

The victim moves somewhere in his peripheral vision, scrambling against the wall to get out of the way, snatching up dropped items before she dashes away. Good; he doesn't have to worry about her getting in the fray.

Vladimir jumps away, so his back isn't to Nose, and takes a few steps to get some distance. Beanie is still half-hunched-over, arms around his middle, glaring.

Nose brings his hands up in a boxing stance. He pounces, elbow arcing through the air.

Vladimir sidesteps the swing, but knocks right into the other guy. Beanie throws a solid punch to Vladimir's side, pain reverberating through his ribs. Shit. He throws an arm up and pushes at Beanie, then turns to focus on Nose.

Nose backs up to the other wall of the alley, feet hitting stacked-up cardboard leant against the brick.

Vladimir swings too close, missing Nose's face by several inches. Nose snickers, but it's short-lived. Vladimir brings down his elbow to crack against the top of Nose's head, sending the guy reeling away. He whirls to face Beanie – that guy is _not_ landing another punch, he thinks – but he's too slow.

Almost. He can see the blow coming and throws his head to the side to dodge it. A knife skitters against the bricks right where his head was. The blade catches on the grout, scraping at it. Oh, so someone was smart enough to be armed, huh?

Beanie swipes with the switchblade again, going for a gut-shot. Vladimir knocks Beanie's forearm wide so that the knife hits the brick again. Hands braced against the wall, Vladimir draws up one leg to kick Beanie away.

Nose Guy has recovered and produced a knife of his own. His chest heaves, stance swaying but gaze steady.

Vladimir steels himself for a cut or two, and changes tack. This needs to end, and soon. He swings a foot at Nose's knee, and slams the side of his hand into the guy's throat.

Disoriented, Nose has no time to block the gloved fist that batters him right between the eyes. Nose almost goes out cold from that hit, lurching back. He curses, cradling his face with his free hand.

Beanie grunts, driving forward with his knife.

Vladimir moves a moment too late and the blade grazes his shoulder. _Breathe_ , he thinks, _no time to worry about that_. The cut flesh throbs as blood seeps out, but it's not pouring, so it can wait. With a nasty curse, he latches onto Beanie's knife arm with both hands, and pulls.

Beanie goes stumbling until his feet go out from under him and he hits the concrete. Vladimir drops alongside him, on one knee, foot against the guy's shoulder. He grabs Beanie's arm closest to him, yanks it up, and cracks it over his leg. It's dislocated, overextended, whatever. Useless, is the point.

Beanie gives a pathetic cry, face all screwed-up.

Vladimir sucks in harsh breaths through the balaclava as he scrambles to stand. Okay, so maybe there is a point to Matt leaving his mouth exposed, apart from asking to be punched in the jaw. Which is good, considering thugs are more likely to break their hands than anyone's mandible-

Nose swears, staggering toward his fallen ally, knife raised. Vladimir rushes Nose in two steps, uninjured shoulder dropped and one hand shoving the knife out of the way. Nose gets bowled over, cushioning Vladimir's fall with a pained grunt. Vladimir pushes off Nose enough to regain his balance and slam a knee onto the mugger's chest.

With a shaky breath, Vladimir draws back his right arm. He hammers Nose in the face with the side of his fist, once, twice, till he bleeds. Vladimir ignores his own blood seeping from the slice on his right shoulder – the white-hot pain of it – and moves to set one foot on the ground and then the other to stand.

A solid kick catches him in the side before he can stand up straight, then another to his thigh. Beanie steps back, left arm hanging limply at his side, switchblade in his good hand.

Vladimir sidesteps a slash from the knife to box Beanie around one ear, then the other. Left hand clamped onto Beanie's good wrist, Vladimir whacks the guy's face, over and over. An eyebrow bursts, nose bleeds, bottom lip splits.

Beanie finally gets the hint and falls after a hit to the bridge of the nose. Nose makes no move from where he huffs and puffs on the ground.

Vladimir laughs, breathless, and straightens his posture. He shakes the blood from his gloves; red flecks paint the scraps of newspaper that litter the alleyway. Muscles and joints aching, he decides that's enough. He abandons the muggers to groan and bruise, scaling a dumpster. With aching hands, he latches onto the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder and heaves himself up.

* * *

"Where did you go?" Matt demands, voice steady against the relief that floods his system. He hasn't been awake long, but when he woke, Vladimir's heartbeat was nowhere around. But now the blond has stumbled home in borrowed clothes, blood on his shirt and gloves. "Are you okay?"

"I went out," Vladimir says, making a beeline for the laundry nook as he pulls a mask from his head. "And I'm fine."

Matt scoffs. He doesn't need to hear the telltale heart-rate change – though he can, and it seems painfully unfamiliar for that heartbeat, now – to know it's a lie. "You're not. Where did you go?" he says, again.

"To where my brother went, before Fisk killed him. A restaurant, not too far. I asked," he pauses to peel away the velcro of a glove with his teeth, "what happened. A waiter. He said, Fisk was with Vanessa, a date. My brother interrupted, and she was scared. Fisk was always…" he trails off. He unlaces his boots, then sheds his shirt, and the smell of blood gets stronger.

Matt winces as he sits up at the window end of the couch, trying not to disturb the stitches. "And you got cut, how?"

Vladimir neglects to answer, moving to the bathroom cupboard to grab the first-aid kit. He heaves a sigh when he wanders over to Matt, gait sluggish.

The brunet draws his legs close enough to make room on the rest of the couch.

"I found someone who needed help, so I fought two men," Vladimir says as he sits down, still lacking a shirt, to expose the cut.

"Fought? Not killed?" Matt says, heart in his throat, on the verge of sinking.

"No." Vladimir unzips the first-aid kit in his lap, sifting through it.

Matt leans forward to touch close to the source of the blood, fingertips pressing lightly. "This'll need stitches, Vladimir." The cut in question is on Vladimir's upper right arm, close to his shoulder. It's only a few inches across, but it's too deep not to worry about.

The criminal curses, head lolling skywards. "I hoped not." He hands over the kit in defeat.

Matt crosses his legs with some effort, quashing the pain. "You say I need armour and then you go out there wearing the exact same thing," he mutters as he grabs the needle but forgoes the tools. It's only a small cut. He focuses on that, and not the tense, coiling feeling in his chest.

"If you had armour, I would have used that," Vladimir jokes, slumping back against the couch.

The lawyer shakes his head, unamused. "That was reckless. You're one week into recovery from a bullet wound. You got through that fight on adrenaline and pure determination. You can't do that again," he wipes at the wound with a scrap of bandage, "not so soon."

He makes quick work of the stitches, snipping the thread off the tied knot after only a few minutes.

"You train, yes?" Vladimir rolls his shoulders once the bandage is taped there, secure. "Exercise training?"

"Yeah, usually," Matt says as he packs the kit away. "Less so recently, since you've been here… injured."

The blond turns to face Matt, torso close to the other man's bent knees. "Let me train with you."

Matt laughs, but it turns out hollow. "Did you not hear what I just said? You are _injured_."

Vladimir places a hand on one of Matt's knees, leaning closer. "I know. I can try to train. I fought."

"And you're fifty percent bruises, congratulations." Matt bends his legs more, shuffles closer, and lowers his voice to a whisper. "If this is just because you're bored, or you don't know what you want…" Because why would he want to train to fight? He's in no position or mindset to go back into 'business', and there's no way he wants to fight crime, or protect anyone.

Vladimir is much too close when he says, "I want this," leant against Matt's knees, heartbeat steady.

Matt ignores the slight lurch of his own heart, the tightness in his chest that he has to put down to being unwell.

"Matt, please?" Vladimir presses.

The brunet's throat constricts, so he clears it to speak. "Fine. You can train with me. But not as much, non-contact, and no going out on patrol."

"That was not patrol, that was to investigate. Coincidence. You expect me to leave people to be hurt?"

Matt frowns, and sets an arm over his knees, trapping the hand there. "You used to hurt people as career. Excuse me if the 'it's the right thing to do' argument feels a little far-fetched," he says, exhaustion stealing the venom from his words.

"That was for business. This… I was wearing your Mask clothes. If people saw the Man in Black, allowing people to be hurt…?"

The coil in Matt's chest tightens impossibly at the implications. "That…" he pauses, collecting his thoughts. Shuts his eyes, opens them again. "You fought them, for me?" he whispers.

"Yes," Vladimir nods.

But no, that doesn't add up. That can't be true. "Really?" Matt says. "I think it's pretty unlikely someone would've seen you. And even if they did, they have to realise that I can't help everyone. Why did you fight them, actually?" He waits for an admission of- of something. Bloodlust, boredom, an itch for violence-

"For you," Vladimir says.

Matt shakes his head. "We just went through that argument-"

"No, for you, because it's what you would do," Vladimir's hand – the one that isn't trapped under Matt's arm – comes up to rest on the brunet's shoulder. "What you would want me to do. And you… I do not deserve your charity. I know I'm… I know what I have done. But you help people day and night." He laughs, head dropping so he can't look Matt in the eyes. "And if I can be a little more like you, then who can it hurt?"

Matt answers honestly before he can think better of it. "Me, if something happens. I just- I don't want to lose you, and that could've happened tonight, if you lost that fight." Which sounds a little hypocritical, because what does he do, when he patrols? But he trains, and up until yesterday, he wasn't injured. Regardless, it doesn't seem real that Vladimir fought off attackers, but the evidence is right in front of him.

"You should not care so much," Vladimir says, neck craned so they're close, too close.

All Matt can hear is his own heartbeat racing in his ears and the heart pounding across from him. He feels the warmth of breath dissipating, the pressure where Vladimir's chest leans against his legs, the hand at his shoulder.

Matt's frown wavers into a small smile, as he hovers closer. "Too late," he whispers.

Vladimir huffs, akin to a laugh, so near that his breath puffs against the brunet's face.

Matt wets his lips and leaves them parted, nerves alight with anticipation, instincts insisting that he should just lean in and-

"Sorry we're late," someone announces over the creak of the door-hinge, laughing. Foggy.

"There was, um, more construction going on," Karen explains as her small heels click against the timber flooring.

Matt leans back, any semblance of a moment shattering. Had he just-? Did they almost-? He fumbles for the blanket at his feet, throwing it at Vladimir. "Tattoos," Matt hisses in lieu of a proper explanation, brain at panic stations.

"Dammit, where's your light-switch, Matt?" Foggy calls as the door closes, hand fumbling against the wall.

This morning, Foggy had invited Karen to visit later, sure, but Matt didn't think they'd go through with it, not really. He takes measured breaths, checking his collar covers the bandages.

Vladimir gets the hint, shuffling to wrap the blanket around his shoulders that heave with agitated breaths of his own.

Matt brings a hand to his flushed face, hoping the abrasions cover the blush. "Hey," he greets the pair, eyes darting between their relative positions, "Foggy, Karen. How was today?"

"Good, good," Foggy says, sitting in one of the armchairs while Karen takes the other.

"Busy," she chimes in with a tired sigh, "a lot of paperwork."

Matt nods along, plasters on a smile, and tries to focus on the conversation. His mind reels, eager to give labels like 'accident', 'nothing', and 'heat of the moment'. He one-ups that denial by filing away the now-memory, resolving to figure it out later. His hands grip the first-aid kit, and with his senses, he resolutely ignores Vladimir, as best he can.


	17. A Flicker in Your Head

Matt should take the couch. Freshly showered and dressed in pyjamas, having bid his friends goodbye half an hour ago, he's ready to go to sleep. But his bed is occupied; during the conversation, Vladimir had wandered off to Matt's bedroom without a word. Foggy muttered something about how he 'knew it', but Karen didn't seem to hear that, so Matt pretended not to as well.

He shouldn't just leave Vladimir as he is though, wrapped in the baby blanket and only half on the bed. Matt steps away from the jamb and slides the door shut. He wanders in, one bare foot nudging away his boots that the blond stole. Leans to pull the blanket away, easing it out from a tangle of limbs. Half-wet locks of hair tumble onto his forehead, but he's beyond caring about it. He huffs as he finally frees the blanket, and rolls it into a ball.

For a minute, he hesitates. It'd be best to turn on his heel, blanket in his arms, and sleep on the couch. He lets in the hum of car engines, the buzz of streetlights and crackle of televised voices and music from neighbours. Somewhere, a grandfather clock chimes for the eleventh hour after noon.

The brunet sets the blanket down on the floor and walks around the edge of the bed. The couch is alright, but the bed and its sheets are their own form of expensive escapism. Besides, the bed is more than big enough for the both of them, and they've been fine before. Matt draws back the sheets and quilt to slide under the covers, weight dipping the mattress slightly, and then pulls them back up. He shuffles as close to the middle of the bed as he dares, and kicks at the other occupant's feet. Draws the blanket up over him, too.

Vladimir snuffles and, after harsher kick, rolls onto his back so he's safe from falling off the side of the bed. He makes a noise halfway between a yawn and a snore, and throws an arm onto the pillow above his head.

Matt rolls his eyes and moves to lie on his side, facing the window. He closes his eyes and shuts out the world beyond the block, the building, the apartment, and then the room. But his thoughts don't stop when the noise lessens, drawing his attention to the heart beating nearby.

Earlier tonight, he was so tempted to just give in and kiss Vladimir. His clouded mind conspired against that, slowing him down in time for Foggy and Karen to interrupt. He was more shocked than annoyed when they showed up, wrested from one contained moment and back into the real world.

Now, he can't shake the thought that a relationship between them could be… troublesome. Matt doesn't have a great track record with romance, even excluding Elektra. A history of weeklong romances and other girlfriends that never last, that always part ways for one reason or another. Besides, a good chunk of his time Foggy thinks was wasted on flings during college was more often spent training.

Matt's not looking for any relationship at all, but here he is anyway, stewing over an almost-kiss. Then again, would a relationship between them be any more troublesome than their friendship? Is their friendship that tumultuous now, anyway? It's getting better, he knows.

He shifts his focus from the general ambience of the room to its only other occupant, soaking in his radiating warmth and the strong, sure _ba-bump_ of his heart. Remembers when it stopped beating, then started again, and all the times he's felt it beat and pulse against his skin.

It would've only been a kiss, he thinks. It wouldn't have had to mean anything, even if it happened. It didn't, it won't. Matt doesn't want-

Or does he? He can't be sure, right now. But if he shuffles any further to the middle of the bed, well, that's neither here nor there.

* * *

Vladimir throws an arm over his eyes to block out the sun, but the cut on his shoulder protests, stitches going taut. He winces and drops his arm. Usually the sun isn't so bad in the mornings, since the close-by buildings and west-facing window make it difficult for too much light to get in. Still, he expects the squeak of leather as he sits up at a glacial pace, covering the barely there noises of exhaustion in the back of his throat.

Instead, soft fabric rustles around him, falling to his hips that are still clad in stolen cargo pants. He paws at the bandage to peel off a corner, exposing the gunshot wound. The incision is barely reddened, ruddy instead by the baby-pink of the new scar. He presses the tape back where it belongs, then straightens his spine to crack the joints there.

A tiny pile of pills decorates the nightstand, stacked against a glass of water. The alarm clock bears nothing but the item and brand name; no time. Vladimir pokes the button on top experimentally, then grabs at the pills.

 _Seven. Thirteen. A. M._ , the alarm clock announces.

Vladimir swallows the trio of pills one by one and chases them down with water, as memories of yesterday wander back. The conversation last night had been mind-numbing. Paperwork, new clients, old ones. Did you hear about this case used as a precedent? Or this new hole-in-the-wall café around the corner? Oh, and you missed out on this hilarious spat at the hairdressing salon across the street.

After Vladimir almost fell asleep on the couch, he left with the blanket and crashed on the bedcovers. Took off the shoes and socks, and fell asleep. Karen and Foggy aren't his friends; it's not his fault he couldn't do anything but make the conversation awkward. Before that-

"Stop thinking so loud," Matt calls from elsewhere in the apartment.

Vladimir sets the glass back on the nightstand with a _thunk_. "What?" he asks as he pushes the sheet and quilt away.

"You keep huffing and sighing," Matt says over the whir of the coffee machine spitting out the last dregs of a batch. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," the blond mumbles, grateful for the rug underfoot as he stumbles away from the bed; he would slip and fall on anything else. He snags the plastic bag of clothes from the top of the dresser on his way out of the room, socked feet padding against the floorboards, balance regained.

The lawyer is already dressed and ready to leave, save for the lack of his trademark glasses. His satchel sits open on the table, laptop and papers stowed away. Despite the darkening bruise across a cheekbone and fading scabs from scrapes, Matt is still as handsome as ever, more so when he offers a small smile.

"Thanks again," he says, then frowns like he regrets opening his mouth, "for the stitches the other night. I had a shower but I think they're all still intact." He brings up a hand to roll the opposite shoulder, stretching the fabric of his dark jacket.

"That's good. How do you feel?" The blond stops by the table, one hand gripping the back of a chair while the other throws the bag of clothes onto it. He paws at the right side of his ribs, glances at the purplish-blue splotches there from a lucky kick. Still, the others must be far worse off. He chuckles silently as he rifles through the bag, coming up with a white t-shirt.

"Better. You want coffee?" Matt offers a mug as though he already knows the answer.

Vladimir pulls the shirt over his head and down to the waistband of his stolen pants. "Thank you," he says, accepting the mug with both hands, warmth flooding his fingers. He takes a hefty sip of the coffee, then sets it down on the table and goes about finding a pair of sweatpants in the bag. "So what are you doing today? At work?"

"Yeah, I'm leaving soon," Matt says, setting his half-empty coffee mug on the table. "After you went to bed," he gestures to the room in question, "Foggy mentioned something about reaching out to an old friend; a lawyer at Landman and Zack. Fisk, Tully, and Silver and Brent are all clients there, so we might be able to get some dirt to sift through. Maybe."

"Good," the criminal says. He should be able to identify some 'dirt' within whatever the lawyer-friend can scrounge together. He ties up the plastic bag once more after finding a pair of black sweatpants. Takes another sip of his coffee, then leans on the table, stretching the sore muscles in his back and shoulders. At the sensation, he sighs without meaning to; basks in the slight pain and the satisfied sensation after relaxing.

Matt clears his throat with a cough, then busies himself with checking the time on his watch. "I'd better get going," he says with a sympathetic sort of frown. He picks up his coffee mug and drains it with a few bobs of his Adam's apple.

"Matt, I want to talk with you, before you go," Vladimir says as he squares his shoulders, one hand still on the back of a chair. He swallows against the lump in his throat and picks up his coffee mug with his free hand. "About yesterday-"

"Yeah, I, um. Me too." Matt pauses, head cocking to the side, bird-like as he sets the empty mug down. Listening to the outside world, probably.

Vladimir hums, quiet and encouraging. Matt can lead the conversation if he wants.

The vigilante opens and closes his mouth, then presses his lips together and wets them. Tenses his jaw, refocuses on who he's speaking to. "I was hoping that we could forget about it. What almost happened; a kiss, or, whatever," he gestures between them with his free hand, as if looping string. "I'm sorry, I overstepped."

Vladimir blinks, heart somehow clenched in his chest and lodged in his throat at the same time. His grip on the chair tightens, and he ignores the overwhelming heat from the mug in his other hand.

' _Too late_ ' replays in his mind, along with that soft, teasing smile, and that tongue darting out to wet too-pink lips, which was- _distracting_ , to say the least. The billboard's colourful hues had cast the prettiest shadows on Matt's face, shone against his wide eyes. He was so close and seemed eager enough; did Vladimir misread all that, or has Matt changed his mind?

It doesn't matter, Vladimir thinks. He just got his answer; that's all there is to it.

"Okay," he manages to say. "It's okay," he adds, because there was an apology in there, somewhere. Dammit, what did Matt even say? ' _Forget about it_ ', he said that much, Vladimir knows.

The lawyer grabs his bag and closes it, slinging it onto one shoulder and just hovering there, waiting, but what does he expect? Vladimir has gotten the message, loud and clear. Matt offers no further explanation – no _why_ ; the question that rakes at the criminal's mind.

"I've gotta go." Matt gets his glasses from a pocket and puts them on. "I probably won't be home for lunch, but there's food in the kitchen. I should be back around five or six. See you later," he nods before walking away.

Vladimir echoes the farewell and stands there until Matt is out the door and his footsteps have faded away. A small part of his mind nags after what he's going to do today. He doesn't work anymore and the apartment is already scarily clean and he can't just _sit here_ -

He abandons the coffee on the table and snatches up the sweatpants and bag of clothes. He has – or can find – better things to do than stand around in the damn living room, that's for sure.

Vladimir isn't heartbroken. He's thirty-three years old, for goodness' sake. He can handle rejection. Can admit that yeah, it might sting a little – a lot – and it feels like he's blushing on the inside or something; innards warped into a tangled, boiling mess. But he's known Matt for barely ten days, he's not that invested.

But he can't stay here, not for today, not for now. Those beautiful windows are suffocating, locking him in here, frosted glass refusing to show the outside world, save for the few clear panes.

Vladimir takes a deep breath through his nose and tries to recall his mental map of Hell's Kitchen. He has to figure out how to navigate around the bombed-out places and the police precincts. And Nelson and Murdock, lest fate intervene and they recognise him walking past.

It's fine. He just needs to take a walk, get some proper fresh air, and look anywhere that doesn't remind him of Matt.

* * *

The work segment of Friday morning is eased by another cheque from Elaine and a cash drop-off from Ed, the electrician they bailed out of the house fire thing. Both clients left with promises of referral, if any friends need legal advice.

Karen is battling the printer that's caught up in a paper jam whilst on the phone with the landlord. Foggy is in the middle of fielding a call from his mom about the impending Nelson Family Thanksgiving get-together. Matt doesn't have much to do but try to compartmentalise the memory that's feeding the bitter feeling coiled in his gut. That, and put a strain on his screen-reader program that struggles to make anything intelligible of today's news.

Okay; Matt knows that he said it was 'too late', that he cares about Vladimir. But he doesn't care _that_ much, and not in that way. It's been a delusion, a pocket of space where he thought they were connecting but they weren't, not as more than friends. Matt's gotten attached before, been abandoned, and moved on. But now he knows – should know, at least – better than to get attached in the first place. That now is the time to pause progress, to stop it in its tracks.

He can ignore whatever it is about Vladimir that got his blood rushing, that almost led to a heat-of-the-moment mistake. That simmering swirl of something he can't pin down that's caught between them, tendrils linking them together. He needs all the friends he can get, and he isn't about to jeopardise what they have now.

This morning, he said what he needed to, to keep it together. He's gotten promises of truth and trust from Vladimir, a request to join him in his vigilantism, to _stay_. God, Matt wants Vladimir to stay, but the odds are against it.

"Bye, Mom. Love you, too," Foggy hangs up, then sighs. He wanders out of his office and through the foyer, into the office without a view. "You know, my mom is heartbroken that you're not visiting, this Thanksgiving. I hope you feel guilty."

Matt swallows against the lump in his throat and pulls his earphones out, then shuts his laptop to stop the droning voice. "I do feel guilty about it," he says. "But I'll be there for Christmas, probably."

"Good. Then you can answer the next call from my mom and tell her that." Foggy heaves a sigh at the idea, then points at his friend, accusatory, "Especially since you didn't go last year." The Thanksgiving get-togethers pale in comparison to the Christmas ones, both in scale and drama, but Matt caught snippets of the conversation. Something about a spat between cousins and their parents, and whether the host's poor old kitchen can handle that much cooking anymore.

The phone rings again, a trill of what sounds like a composition made by a three-year-old with access to a soundboard.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Foggy exclaims, as if they phone is the cause of his woes. He digs it out of a pocket with a little difficulty. "If it's my mom, or Vla- um, Vince, you're answering." He taps at the screen with a muttered curse as it takes a second to comply, then brings the phone to his ear. "Hello? Hey, Brett… Yeah…" The next pause is longer, the phone's speaker too low to hear well. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for reaching out."

The conversation is over so fast that Matt didn't really have time to process it, and he wasn't meaning to eavesdrop in the first place. "What'd he say?" he asks, fingers drumming against the laptop's lid.

Foggy's mood has shifted; heartbeat agitated, breaths a little sharper, head shaking. Disbelief? Surprise? "That junkie that killed Elena-" he takes another breath and pockets the phone, "they found him."

The brunet nods. "Good." Just like he planned-

"Brett said the junkie took a dive off the roof of the building he was shooting up in. They had to sponge him off the sidewalk," Foggy says with a minute shudder, disgust clear in his tone. He lowers his voice, steps towards the desk. "You didn't…?"

Matt's fingers still against the laptop. "No, I told him to turn himself in," he keeps his voice quiet despite his frustration, "I wouldn't do that."

"Okay, I believe that," Foggy says and well, at least that's one weight from the vigilante's shoulders. "And, um, your other friend…?"

"No."

"I mean… he has," Foggy makes a squeaky-door noise, and mimes slitting his throat, "people before."

Matt tenses his jaw out of habit, and cocks his head to the side, considering. "He didn't know Elena, and I barely told him what happened," he says, careful to keep any venom out of his tone. He knows that Vladimir has killed people, but he wouldn't do this. Matt didn't even have to listen – though he did, still – to know that Vladimir was telling the truth yesterday evening.

Foggy shrugs and holds up a hand as if weighing the possibility. "Yeah, but if he thought you wanted-"

"He knows that I don't," the vigilante snaps, only to be met with a scoff.

"What, did you two have a mushy talk about whether murder is okay?"

"No," Matt says, vowing not to dwell on that descriptor. "Look, I'll tell you about it later, but trust me, I know." He gestures to the door, "Right now, you should tell Karen."

"I- yeah, you're right," Foggy sighs and retreats to the doorway, leaning against it. "It's almost lunchtime; are you gonna go home to see him?" he asks, tone insinuating but not quite mocking.

Matt isn't in the mood to joke back; the memory of his… departure, this morning, leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "No. There's plenty of food at home, and there's work to do here."

Foggy looks around, hair swishing against his collar, and waves to the office and the foyer. "Doesn't look too busy to me," he says, surely smiling. "Also, I hope that later-talk involves an explanation re: the bed-sharing that's apparently going on. Since when-?"

"You know what?" Matt pushes his chair back from the desk to stand; glad he's already wearing his jacket thanks to the ever-colder weather. "I might go buy lunch for us three, here." He pushes his chair back in and walks to the door, buttoning up his suit jacket as he goes. "What do you want?" he asks with a forced smile.

The other lawyer raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, fine, no speculation. It can wait," he says lightly. "And get whatever's cheap. I know we're getting a bit of cash, but we still have to pay off those office supplies Karen bought. They're great and all, but with the rent…"

"Got it," Matt says, somewhat nastily. He grabs his cane from where it leans against the wall and steps past his best friend to get to the foyer. He waves to Karen, who's still pacing in front of her desk, as far as the corded phone will allow.

She covers the mouthpiece to say, "Bye, Matt," then returns to the call. She hums along as the landlord goes through the updates to the building regulations, the possible renovations on another floor and what they entail for everyone else.

The brunet leaves without another word, closing the door behind him on the way out. He frowns at the memory of the fight he had with Vladimir in this hallway, thinks maybe he was too abrupt this morning, too harsh. He dismisses the thought with a shake of his head. Besides, even if it was a little brusque, he has no doubt the criminal has dealt with far worse than a curt statement.

* * *

In eight years of living in New York City, Vladimir has only been to Central Park a handful of times. It's for tourists to scamper through, cameras in hand. For parents with munchkins tied into strollers, joggers, and yoga-enthusiasts. All the losers that have nothing better to than wanders around a giant park for an hour or two.

Vladimir leans on his elbows against the stonework railing of Gapstow Bridge, admiring the orange-yellow-green-kaleidoscope of dying leaves on the trees that surround the pond. Some trees are already barren, spiky branches skeletal the sky where it isn't blocked by skyscrapers. The Plaza Hotel stands out white-and-green against the silvers and greys of the other buildings near the park.

Passersby tend to struggle against the chilly bite to the wind today that promises everyone that winter mere weeks away. Bundled in coats, hats, scarves, and bonnets, babies swaddled in so many layers they've got to be sweating. Vladimir finds it a little ridiculous.

He appears just as affected by the cold, with woollen gloves and a scarf over his face, but they're not for that. The scarf is wrapped snug over his cheekbones and almost up to his eyes, its charcoal-coloured fabric unfairly soft. He keeps the hood of the sweatshirt up and the collar of the coat high as well, so the scarf doesn't look so out of place.

Sweatpants and a coat looked ridiculous, so he nabbed a pair of jeans to borrow. They're the only pair he could find, so they could be the one pair Matt owns. There aren't too many people left to recognise Vladimir, but not looking like an idiot is a priority all on its own.

"Hey," someone says in his periphery. Vladimir turns, eyes narrowed. There stands a trio of girls, clad in cheap winter coats and casual wear. "Excuse me, could you please take our picture for us?" the one brandishing a smart-phone asks, flicking one of her French braids off her shoulder.

The criminal narrows his eyes at the gaggle of teenagers. Are they tourists, or skipping school? Their accent is so blandly American that he can't tell. Vladimir pushes off the bridge railing and turns to face them, folding his arms across his chest. He towers over them easily and doesn't make a move to shift the scarf over his face.

Braid Girl's expression goes from hopeful to unimpressed. She waves the phone. "There aren't many people around, and we want the picture to print. Please?"

Unlike her, the other girls avoid his gaze. One fiddles with the faux-fur on her hooded jacket, while the other is on her phone, acrylic nails clicking away as she types.

Vladimir tugs the scarf down to speak. "Sure." He grabs the phone held out to him. "Which way?"

"With the Plaza in the background," Braid Girl points towards the hotel, and plasters on a winning smile. "Thanks."

With a small roll of his eyes, Vladimir walks away from the railing and holds up the phone in camera mode. The girls crowd against the railing and huddle in, arms wrapped around each other's waists. The one with the nails mumbles something to the others, who giggle at the comment.

"Smile," he says, boredom clear in his tone.

The girls comply as they shuffle and fidget, squinting against the midday light and then trying to keep their eyes open.

Vladimir takes a few photos, just in case they deem the first one to be not good enough. He lowers the phone and holds it out. "Here you go."

Braid Girl takes back the phone with a 'thank you'. She flicks through the photos, her friends looking over her shoulders and commenting on this and that. The lighting, the Plaza Hotel in the background, the pretty shades of orange leaves.

"Awesome!" Braid Girl announces, pocketing the phone. "Thanks again. The pond has the best views." The others nod their assent.

The criminal raises an eyebrow at that. For 'the best views', not many people pass through. Only a few of the benches by the path close to the bridge are occupied, and not that many people have walked past.

Hoodie Girl rifles through one of the pockets of her parka, and then another. Her hand emerges, triumphant, with a brightly coloured plastic bag. "Want one?" she offers, holding the bag out.

Vladimir recognises the brand as one of scotch mints, either in their traditional mint flavour or, as the bag suggests, a fruity concoction. "Yes," he says, grabbing the bag. The candies are individually wrapped already, in neon colours. With a glance to the trio who're talking amongst themselves again, he snatches a handful of the sweets. Pockets them in his coat and holds the bag out. "Thank you."

"No problem." Hoodie Girl smiles, taking the bag back, only for the others to snatch and raid it. They meander away, tearing open candy wrappers and throwing the plastic back into the bag, chattering about something or other.

Vladimir had better go home soon. It's almost midday and he's hungry thanks to not having breakfast. It'll take half an hour to walk back, even if he avoids the crowds at Times Square. He pulls the scarf up and secures it over half of his face once more. Walks off the bridge and along the pebbled path to the collection of benches, hands in his pockets. Further along, a mom encourages her toddler to talk to the family of ducks waddling past. Vladimir takes a seat on the bench closest to the bridge and leans back.

He tears open one of the scotch mints, a sickly yellow colour, and tugs down the scarf to pop the candy into his mouth. He doesn't mind them; they're cheap and sweet and won't crack your teeth if you chew them too hard. Vladimir lets his eyes flutter shut, arms folded and posture relaxed. He takes stock of his injuries with slow movements; a hand to the bandages layered over the gunshot wound, a shift of his shoulder that tugs at the stitches there. He presses a hand to the right side of his ribs, gloved fingertips digging into the expansive bruise there.

It's not so bad. He's walking better every day since the gunshot wound has been healing up, its scar tissue expansive but not too deep, and not pinching any nerves. He can train with Matt and hopefully patrol, soon. Continue with their investigating; further their endeavour to expose Fisk.

Maybe that's why Matt said it. Their goal is much too important; a romantic relationship wouldn't be worth risk. Even if that weren't the case, Vladimir has no delusions that he's Matt's _type_ or anything like that, can see how he wouldn't be right for the lawyer. Matt deserves far better. Being selfish and impulsive has, more often than not, sent the good things in Vladimir's life spiralling down the proverbial drain.

So what if he thought they had something? Matt doesn't feel that way. Vladimir knows that he needs to get over it. Quash memories that argue otherwise, smooth out the twist in his guts. _Forget about it._


	18. Dreams and Anguish

A/N: So sometimes I 100% forget that I post this story both on AO3 and FFN, or if I do remember I'm like "eh, I'll update the FFN version later" (purely because it means I have to go through the text and add italics because I can't figure out how to use just HTML for uploading chapters on here - maybe it's not possible, idk. This chapter is about… four months late. Sorry! Chapter 18, 19, and 20 are going to be posted here in quick succession and then in the next week or so I hope to finish chapter 21 and post it on both sites.

* * *

Foggy bursts into Matt's office the second Karen leaves. They'd all been putting off going to the office supply shops to get new reams of paper, and finally it ran out when the printer chewed up the last few pages in a jam.

"Is everything okay?" Matt pauses his reading of the refreshable Braille display - currently rolling through Landman and Zack's annual report from last year - and looks up, towards the door.

Foggy closes the door behind him, but keeps a hand on the almost-peeling paint. "I guess you've got plans to go out tonight," he says, breath still tinged with the chilli-laden Thai curry he had for lunch. "To punch people and whatever, even though you're still roughed up?"

The brunet tries not to tense his jaw, and fails. "Yeah."

"Right," Foggy taps the wall. "So, as your friend, it's my advice that you sleep, sometimes. And if you go out at dusk, after work, and stay out until you get tired, then you might actually sleep for a few solid hours."

"That makes sense," Matt says, a grateful warmth settling in his chest. To know that Foggy doesn't approve but is trying to support him anyway seems to lighten the stress that'd set in when the conversation started.

"But, we agreed on a later-talk. About the current state of your blossoming new friendship," Foggy says, a grin in his voice.

"And?" Matt raises an eyebrow. Later could mean days, or-

"And, now is later than before," Foggy says, sing-song. He drops the silly tone to continue. "We've had lunch, finalised some paperwork, you're partway through that annual report from L and Z. So, if it's okay with you…?"

"Yeah, sure," Matt sighs and stands from his chair. "But I need more coffee for this." He's not all that tired, but he could use the distraction rather than sitting here, twiddling his thumbs.

"Sure," Foggy opens the door and wanders from the room. "So, how're you holding up with the cuts?"

The vigilante nods as he paces to the coffee machine. "Good enough to go out tonight. The stitches are all right."

"Yeah, I still can't believe Vladimir did them so well."

"I can," Matt smiles as he takes the empty pot and fills it with water from the tap. He pours it into the machine's reservoir, then grabs a new coffee filter from the stack.

Foggy scoffs. "Anyway, stitching expertise aside, I'm sure it'd be better if you stayed in, but."

The coffee grounds are easy to find, being much more pungent than the other tins of sugar and tea. "I want to see if anyone knows about this lightweight armour Fisk wears. If I can get my hands on some-"

"No more needing stitches, huh? That's great. I guess if it's just for that," Foggy stands beside the vigilante, half-leant against the countertop and drumming his fingers against it.

Matt hums in agreement as he shuts the half-full coffee filter inside the machine.

Foggy sounds almost hesitant to continue the conversation, umming and ahhing for a few moments. "Oh, and uh, how's Vladimir?"

"Well, um," Matt flips the switch on the power point and presses the correct buttons after a moment's hesitation. "Last night, before you and Karen came over, I'd been asleep for a while," he says slowly. "Vladimir went out as the Mask, to-"

"Wait, hold the phone, he went out as the Mask? What'd you do, instill a sense of justice in him through your usual rhetoric? Converted him to the doctrine of 'beat the shit out thugs'? Or was it the longing gazes?"

Matt furrows his brows, wishing he could _not_ decipher that statement, but really, it doesn't take any effort to figure out. Do – did – they really seem that way? First it was 'tender', then 'mushy', and now 'longing'. All in a similar vein, and all things he doesn't want to think about.

He sighs. "No, it was about his brother. And if he beat up a few scumbags," he shrugs as if to add 'so what?'

The other lawyer hums thoughtfully, barely audible over the whir of the machine. "Good for him, I guess. Good for you, to have someone as crazy as you that's willing to beat people up together," he says. It sounds genuine, if a little solemn.

Matt pouts without meaning to, then tries to school his expression into something more blank. Some problems, he's content to avoid, but if they're already having a talk about problems…"I feel like I already know the answer, but what do you mean by 'longing', and the other things you've said?" It'll be worth it, if it'll get Foggy to never say anything like that, ever again.

"Huh? Are you kidding me?" Foggy laughs and hits a hand on the counter. "Is there really nothing going on between you? I thought, a couple times- I mean, you've gotten real close, real fast. That's got to be romantic, right? Not that, y'know, I want it to be, because I don't-" he waves his hands in a negative, flattening gesture, then goes back to drumming the counter.

"No, it's not, uh, romantic," Matt says, then coughs into his fist. Now or never, he thinks. "We almost kissed last night, right before you showed up. But…" He trails off and gestures vaguely.

Instead of a sputtered or yelled 'What?' like he expects, Matt gets silence. Foggy breathes in as if to speak, but doesn't. His heart rate rises a little and his fingers go idle against the bench, while the coffee machine slows its whirring.

The coffee pours in lieu of a pin-drop. Matt swallows against the lump in his throats and ducks his head as if to stare at the coffee machine.

"What, did he reject you afterwards?" Foggy asks, tone sympathetic. "Said it would've been a mistake, or something?"

Matt wants to laugh, because that's what he thinks, and what he almost said. He shakes his head. "He brought it up and I said we should forget about it."

"And?" Foggy persists.

"And, he agreed." The brunet doesn't bother fumbling for the cupboard with fresh mugs, and plucks two out with ease.

"That's good, I guess," Foggy says, though it almost sounds like a question.

Matt frowns as he sets the mugs on the bench. "What?"

"It's good, if you're sure that's not what you want," Foggy rambles. "Which would be good, because, personally, I'm not a big fan of murderers, but you don't seem to give a shit about that, so-"

"So that's what this is about now?" Matt pours coffee, holding the mug a little too tight. "Yeah, I think there's more to someone than some of their actions-"

" _Dozens_ of their actions, ahem," Foggy says as he walks around the other lawyer, towards the cupboard where the extra coffee creamer is kept. "He must've killed and manipulated his way to the top, and then he ran a business that profited off of hurting people."

Matt sets the coffee pot back in its holder and simply breathes for a second; blinks, relaxes his shoulders, moves his toes in his shoes."I know that. I know."

Foggy sets the tin of creamer on the countertop and grabs a dry but unwashed spoon to crack the lid. "And?" He heaps some of the powder into each mug.

"And, I think people can change." Matt finds the plastic tub of sugar and heaps three teaspoons - with a _fresh_ teaspoon - into his mug. "Over the course of- of an hour or two, he went from trying to kill me, to trying to stay behind so I could live." He tosses the spoon into the sink, where it's followed by the other one.

"Why didn't you let him?" Foggy throws up his hands in surrender when Matt turns his head to glare at him. "No offence, but this mess would be a whole lot simpler if you let him stay behind."

"I don't want to leave anyone behind. But, mostly, for information," Matt says weakly.

Foggy hums, unconvinced. "And how much has he given you, that's helped?"

"Locations for the Triad, who import the heroin." He thinks back to the unused list he wrote, that he planned on getting Claire to read back to him.

"Oh? So you've gone there and thwarted their bad plans?" He takes a sip from his coffee, even though it's still too hot. "Ninja-kicked the shit out of them?"

"No, if I went to all of them, they'd figure out Vladimir was still alive. He gave me information about the accountant for Fisk, Owlsley, and I went after him, but I got stun-gunned. And then when Mrs. Cardenas was killed, I followed that lead. I found the junkie that killed her and then where the deal was made, but it was a trap."

"But you could've gotten similar information without him, right? Talked to someone else about the Triad."

Matt gingerly picks up his coffee mug, heat seeping into his hands as he holds it. "Maybe, yeah, I guess," he says, exasperated. "I know it was a gamble and in your mind it mightn't have paid off. But for me, it has. He's my friend, and there's more to him than his crimes."

Foggy slurps at his coffee, then sets the half-empty mug back on the bench. "Thank you, Mother Teresa," he taps at the countertop, then sighs again. "Okay, fine. But he's not my friend by default," he points as Matt, who nods. "An ally against Fisk, sure. Look, vile past aside, if he's good to you then I won't use mace-spray him. And if it turns out that you don't want to 'forget about it'…"

Matt chuckles, "You don't have mace," he says, then takes a sip of his sweetened coffee.

"No," Foggy admits, "but Karen does, and I'm sure she'd let me borrow it for a good cause."

"I'm sure she would." Though, to be fair, Vladimir could probably still land a few punches before the irritant could really start to burn.

Foggy laughs, probably imagining the debacle. He finishes off his coffee in one go, then sets the mug by the cheap splash-back that runs alongside the counter of the kitchenette. "You can tell me to shut up, if this is prying," he says, "but how did you almost kiss? I mean, since you think it would've been a mistake, now. I don't understand how it got that close."

"I don't know," Matt says with a shake of his head. "I really don't. One moment, it felt right, and the next, you and Karen were there and…"

"Well, yeah, but when we left-"

"He was asleep." Matt expects a retort of 'in your bed', and prepares to refute that because it doesn't mean anything, even if there is a perfectly good couch in the next room.

"And this morning-"

"We talked about it."

That gives Foggy pause. He tilts his head to the side, scrutinising his best friend. "In depth?"

Matt raises his eyebrows for a moment and turns his head away. "Briefly. I overstepped-"

"How do you know? Did he say that?"

"I said it. And he said, 'Okay'."

Foggy laughs, mirthless, and shakes his head, hair swishing against his jacket's collar. "Oh that's A-plus communication right there, nice work. Seriously? Are you not going to talk it out?"

"No," Matt snaps and sets his mug down with a little too much force. He's done dancing around the truth, at least with Foggy, because yeah it's somewhat his business and Matt agreed to this conversation, but trying to be vague it getting really old, really fast. "Maybe I don't want to hear things spelled out for me, okay?"

Foggy huffs. "Shit, sorry. That sucks. I didn't realise- I mean, you know what's going on better than I do. Just- if you wanna talk to me, I'm here," he reaches for the coffee pot and his discarded mug to pour another cup. "And remember, I have access to mace," he inclines the mug as if pointing to his friend.

Matt presses his lips into a thin line and nods, then smiles. "Thanks, Fog." He really doesn't know how he and Vladimir got so close that they could've kissed. He tries to think back to that moment, again, but it's far-off. Like it happened ages ago, and not last night. Maybe it's the physical distance - being here at the office - or maybe it's because Vladimir isn't here.

It is a mess, Foggy's right about that. Matt finds it difficult to rationalise keeping Vladimir around, sure. Throws vague reasons that are half-truths into words. It should bother him.

It doesn't when they're around each other, though. When there's no-one else to prove themselves to, or to justify anything, Matt isn't troubled. Doesn't feel like the worst is being brought out in him, or that he's dragging someone down. He's not about to give that feeling up without good reason to.

Vladimir yanks the shoelaces tight. His wounds throb, and his heart won't settle in his chest. He shouldn't be leaving; he said he wouldn't.

But it's just for tonight, just for now. For another taste of the pastime that's taking over Matt's life. Sunk its claws in and begun to tear with pain and stress and all those goddamn cuts.

Vladimir has never felt a particular need to- to atone. That would imply stopping, and he had no plan to do that. Now, he has no intention of going back to that life. He and his brother built their branch of the business together, and now that it's gone, Vladimir can't find it in himself to want it back. All the work it would take… The first step of which would be abandoning Matt, which is out of the question. He would have to join another established branch of the same organisation in another city and claw his way to the top, for what? It won't bring Anatoly back.

He's not affected by what he's done; what he had to do to get where he was. He can remember almost every throat slit, kneecap busted, scream from 'cargo'. He'd grown accustomed to working amidst the whirring of note counters, the metallic scent of gun smoke that seeped through the haze of the others' bad cologne and spilt alcohol.

But his old life is fading fast, looking less and less appealing with each day. Maybe he can't avenge Anatoly with the blood of their enemies, but he can beat the snot out of pond scum on the streets. Matt is handling the main agenda – or at least he will be, once he's healed more – and he trusts him with it.

Vladimir now knows why Fisk killed Anatoly – probably – but where does that leave him? With a reason, but no new target. It's Fisk's fault, not the woman's. He can't kill Fisk, or Wesley, or any of their cronies that enabled Anatoly's murder. Wouldn't be able to get past security or get rid of any bodies. Won't draw that kind of attention when it could lead back to Matt, and ruin everything they have. Whatever it is they have.

He straightens his posture, stands tall to test the stitches in the shirt. It turns out Matt has a similar spare, so he's wearing that tonight, as he goes to investigate the armour Fisk had.

Matt is going to talk to Turk Barrett though, and Vladimir wasn't allowed to go with him. If Matt wants to pick and choose what they agreed on, and make up new rules, then Vladimir will find ways around his decisions. All Vladimir said, when Matt left, was that he wouldn't go with him. Not a lie, not really.

A phone rings as Vladimir goes to pull on the balaclava, but it's not the burner in his pocket.

 _Karen_ , the phone says. _Karen, Karen, Karen._

Matt's normal phone rings from his room, insisting on the caller.

 _Karen, Karen, Karen._

Vladimir shouldn't answer it, but it could be something important. Maybe she's in trouble, or had a breakthrough in the Fisk case. He rushes to the bedroom and snatches the phone from its charging cable on the nightstand.

Karen, the phone reminds him.

After a few wrong buttons, he manages to pick up the call. "Hello?"

" _Hi, Vince_ ," Karen says, sounding flustered.

"Is something wrong?" the Russian asks as he rolls the fabric of the balaclava between the fingers of his free hand.

" _No, not really, I was just trying to get ahold of Matt. Is he there?_ "

"No," Vladimir says, then smoothly transitions to a lie. "He is not feeling well; he went to sleep early." He glances to the windows in the bedroom, admiring the way the frosted glass catches the vibrant colours of an emergency vehicle's lights as it screeches around the block.

" _Oh, okay._ "

"I can take a message?"

" _No, that's fine. I'll talk to him tomorrow sometime. Can you tell him I called?_ "

"Of course."

" _Okay, thank you. Bye_."

"Goodbye." Vladimir hangs up and puts the phone back on charge. He doesn't plan on telling Matt, tonight; he wants to get back here before the American, not have to answer to him while they're both bruised and tired.

Considering his luck, though, it's not out of the question that Matt could get back first and wait up. Vladimir shakes his head, and turns on his heel to stalk out of the room. It doesn't matter, right now. He has scumbags to find.

Vladimir takes one last look at the three kids in the deli, stockings over their faces and weapons in hand, waving them at the shopkeeper. One has a revolver, while the others brandish switchblades. The tired neon of the 'OPEN' sign flickers, threatening to go out. Vladimir adjusts the balaclava where it's tucked into the collar of his stolen shirt, and pulls the door open.

Or, he tries to, but the little sign above the handle actually says 'PUSH'. The one with the revolver whirls, eyes wide behind the stocking as he fumbles to aim the gun and grab it with his other hand.

While the kid - okay, they're probably all around twenty, but still - tries to aim, Vladimir opens the door and barrels towards the robbers.

"Oh, shit." Without pulling back the hammer, the guy fires off a shot into the glass of the door, right next to the newcomer. The recoil almost knocks it out of his hands, thanks to a lousy grip, as the glass shatters at Vladimir's back.

The vigilante clocks the guy with an elbow to the face, nose crumpling under the force of the swing. He snatches the gun with his other hand and blinks against the harsh fluorescent light, deciding whom to hit next. With a few fluid, practised movements, he pushes the release latch, moves the cylinder out, and upends the gun. The bullets fall from the cylinder, and scatter when they hit the floor.

He shoves the one who had the gun into the others as red seeps into the stocking around his nose. One accomplice starts forward, knife low and poised for a gut-shot. Her friend isn't far behind, but the knife shakes in his grip.

Vladimir shakes his head and takes a heavy step towards them, revolver raised. He smashes the butt of the gun into the girl's face in a downward strike. Rocks back on one foot, then forward, to kick her square in the chest.

Instead of stumbling, the girl falls flat on her back, taking out a dozen candies from the front shelf as she goes, knife clattering elsewhere. The other one with a knife swings, trying to slash at Vladimir's chest.

The vigilante dodges to the side, almost crashing into a shelf of junk food. He lobs the gun across the store, sending it skittering towards the fridges. He twists his chest to avoid another slash, then latches onto the hand with the knife. Readjusts to grip the wrist, then uses his height to his advantage and rams a shoulder into the guy's face.

The guy tries to stab anyway, and gets a hit to the hand for his trouble. On the second whack of a closed fist to his knife hand, the guy drops it.

The one who had the gun circles around the scuffling pair, probably going for the exit. This has to end, soon; before the cops arrive, or one of them gets the jump on Vladimir.

Stunned from the shoulder hit, the guy shakes his head and moves to put some distance between them. Vladimir saves him the trouble and, with a two-handed push, shoves the guy clean off his feet.

The other one is- shit. Where'd he go? Vladimir turns, ready to catch the one who had the gun and make sure his nose is well and truly broken. But the guy latches onto Vladimir's back, an arm looping around his neck and squeezing.

It's not going to do much, since the pressure is too weak, but if one of the guy's friends finds a switchblade and manages to stand up-

A litany of curses are on the tip of Vladimir's tongue as he reaches back to grab at the guy. His assailant doesn't budge, shuffling his feet and trying to pull them both down.

Teeth gritted, Vladimir ignores the gnawing pain in the bullet wound and stitches alike. He grounds his feet, then swivels his body, swinging the guy into the counter. The would-be choker's arm falters, grip going slack with shock.

Vladimir kicks another one of them in the head as she tries to get up off the floor. The other stays down, while the final one is slumped against the counter, flailing to stand.

With a manic grin behind the balaclava, the vigilante digs a gloved hand into the guy's hair through the stocking. He pulls away from the counter, then slams the head back with a dull thump. The guy groans, hands coming up to scrabble at Vladimir's arm. To no avail, of course; he gets another, harder whack to the countertop. The arms don't fall, so the head gets another, perfunctory hit.

The guy crumples to the floor, still breathing heavily. A smear of blood marks the plastic where the head hit it the third time.

Another one of the would-be robbers scrambles to his feet, climbing on his unconscious friend without a care. Switchblade in hand, he raises it for a high stab, a snarl on his stocking-warped lips.

Vladimir moves out of the way of the strike, swooping in to tackle the guy. The knife is still there, blade flailing for a hit. Vladimir throws his own forearm over the guy's, pinning it there for a moment. He regains balance, readjusts to slam a knee down onto that same arm. Other knee on the opposite side of the guy's chest, Vladimir sets his back straight to swing a fist down. He pummels the guy's face, knuckles taking the brunt of each hit.

Skin splits to draw fresh blood, then get soaked up by the stocking and Vladimir's gloves. Reality snaps back into place as red drips from the gloves – again, he thinks – and the blood roaring in his ears becomes white noise. Wailing sirens echo nearby; a street or two away, at best.

Vladimir breathes heavily and swallows against the lump in his throat. He pushes off the fallen thief to stumble to his feet, limbs threatening to leaden as the rush of the fight ebbs. The storekeeper has disappeared, hiding behind the counter or in a backroom somewhere, and the other thieves are still out of commission.

Dammit, Vladimir needs to get the hell out of here before the cops show up. He backs out of the store, plastic crinkling under his boots, and almost trips over the guy still slumped against the counter. His eyes catch on the caved shelves, the candy littering the floor in the body's wake.

Body, no, he's- the guy is still breathing. Vladimir wouldn't do that to Matt. Dread floods his system all the same. The criminal turns on his heel, and runs out of the store. He sprints down the first alley he sees, scrambles up the ladder to the closest fire escape. He claws his way to the rooftop, puffing harsh breaths as his injuries begin to catch up to him. But the sirens are even closer now, lights blurred on the edge of his vision, so he continues to run like the devil is on his heels.

Matt rubs softly at the bruises forming on his knuckles, and blinks as though it'll help him stay awake. He's leant against the kitchen counter, elbows digging into the chipboard, as he tries not to white-knuckle his hands into fists.

It's late, and he wants to go to sleep, but this apartment is devoid of a second heartbeat. And it's- it's only been a week or so with one, but it still isn't right. They didn't talk much this afternoon and Matt might've been a little blunt with his goodbye, but. He just needed to get out of the apartment so he could focus on finding someone, to find Turk, to find the armour-maker.

Matt doesn't bother trying to listen outside the apartment in detail. It all radiates in, sure, but he doesn't focus anywhere else. Vladimir was long gone when Matt got home an hour ago. Hearing him thirty seconds before he gets home won't make a difference.

Footsteps sound on the rooftop just as Matt lifts the heel of his hand to his temple, willing the headache there to ebb faster as the painkillers kick in. He freezes, sinks his fingers into his hair to run them through it, and pushes off the countertop. The roof-access door opens with a quiet click and a relieved huff from Vladimir.

Matt runs through what to say, what to ask, as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. A trace of something metallic taints the air, as it did before he'd had a shower post-beating-up-thugs.

Blood, and not Vladimir's own. Gun-smoke. Street-grime, dirt from gravel, smokestack pollution. So different from he sensed earlier today, the clues from Central Park that Vladimir confirmed without hesitation, the candy that had been a gift. He cited needing some air, and Matt could relate well enough.

This, though. Matt can't help but fear the worst. "Where did you go?" he asks, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Out," Vladimir says as he plods down the stairs.

Matt laughs bitterly. "Yeah, no shit. What happened? What did you do?"

"Went out, in a mask. I heard people going to rob a deli, so I fought them."

"Why? I thought we agreed that you'd train with me first, and then help with the vigilante stuff. And correct me if I'm wrong," he sets his hands on his hips, "but it sounded like you wanted to fight by my side, not off on your own."

Vladimir takes a slow, deliberate breath before speaking. "Look. Three people, with two knives, and one gun. One shoots next to me. I grabbed the gun and hit him with it. I threw it away, and beat the others," he stumbles a little on the last step, almost losing his balance once he reaches the floor. "I'm fine," he waves a dismissive hand. His heartbeat is too worked up to discern a lie from for sure, but it isn't too hard to guess it is.

Matt finds his feet moving of their own accord towards the staircase, socks padding against the timber flooring. "You might've opened up the gunshot wound, though," he says as he passes the couch. "Or just aggravated it."

The blond huffs a weak laugh. "Aggravated, yes," he pulls off the balaclava and sets it on the end of the railing.

Matt reaches out absentmindedly once he stands before the other man, a hand going to help with the shirt. He's too late though, and the shirt is halfway off by the time he realises his hand is still hovering there. He stuffs the offending hand into a pocket of his sweatpants.

Vladimir throws the shirt on the floor, then grabs the railing for support as he descends to sit on the bottom stair. He begins to work at the laces of one old boot, then seemingly remembers the gloves, and pauses to yank them off. They're just woollen, unlike Matt's armoured ones, and are soaked through with blood. As they hit the floorboards, a sickening, wet smack echoes through the apartment.

"Why did you go?" Matt asks as he sits on the floor by the stairs, careful to avoid the gloves. He draws his legs up and settles his elbows on his knees, arms almost crossed.

"I wanted to know how it feels," Vladimir says as he pulls a sock off with bloody hands. "How you feel, when you go. Not with the," he sighs, "saving people, wanting to save them. Just, on your own, against them. And if it helps people…"

Warmth settles in Matt's chest at the words, eating away at the dread that had worked its way in there before. That's not the same as how Matt feels, but he can almost pluck a lie from Vladimir's heartbeat - still fast from running all the way here, probably - and really, it's close enough.

"That's why you do it?" Vladimir asks. "To help them?"

"Yeah; to make this city a better place. And uh, the method, um. I don't know. It's means to an end," the brunet shakes his head, and shrugs. It's a lie, but it's one he's prepared to tell everyone, except in confession, or intimidation.

Vladimir sees right through it. "The violence feels good?" he guesses, heartbeat anything but anxious as he peels at the tape on the bandage.

Matt breathes a sigh of relief. "It shouldn't, but it does." Absentmindedly, he wets his lips and straightens his posture, shifting to get more comfortable. "And, it feels justified."

"I understand. I…" he tilts his head, considering. "Can you check the wound?" he asks as he eases the bandage off and folds it up. "See if something is wrong? You seem to know…"

"I can try." Matt shuffles closer and crosses his legs. He sets his hand over the wound, ghosts over the stitches to check they're intact. Feels the abnormal heat and swelling of the wound as it continues to heal, but it's not too much more than usual. They should be in the clear. "How much does it hurt?" he asks, rubbing at his eye with his free hand.

"Not much."

"Good," the lawyer says and goes to pull his hand away.

Vladimir catches it, and loosely intertwines their fingers. "I'm sorry," he mutters. After a moment, he breathes in again as if to speak, but whatever words he's thinking of stay on the tip of his tongue.

Matt tries to block out the criminal's heartbeat as he ducks his head and tugs his hand free, cringing when the congealing blood sticks to his skin. "I set up the couch again, for you. Since the blanket and pillow were moved. And there's a new towel for you, when you have a shower. Or, a bath." He stands without touching his bloody hand to the floor, and retreats to the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Matt?" Vladimir calls over the sound of the tap running.

"Yeah?"

"Did you find an armour-maker?"

"Yeah, I did. He's going to try to make me armour," Matt says as he washes the suds from his hands. "Detailed with horns, to symbolise the Devil."

Vladimir chuckles, struggling to his feet. "That is how Semyon described you. The devil," he mocks. "Why?" he asks as he hobbles towards the bathroom.

Matt shakes his hands free of water. "You were right, about fear," he admits. "Some people don't have enough of it. People who deserve to be afraid." Tired legs carry him to his bedroom, though he pauses in the doorway. "Goodnight," he says over his shoulder.

"Goodnight," Vladimir intones from the next room.

Matt crawls under the covers, and soon falls asleep to the sound of water running, through pipes in the walls, and the heartbeat just a wall away.

Vladimir can barely keep his eyes open, even though he slept from midnight till eight this morning. Maybe it was the billboard that kept him up, when its colourful light glittered off of the glass on the coffee table, the jars on the shelf next to the fridge. Maybe it was that dumb blanket, without a loose stitch to pick at; only cartoon elephants with daisies perched on the ends of their trunks, and birds with oddly beady eyes.

The tiredness is definitely why Vladimir only half-notices when Matt starts acting weird at breakfast. He slows his chewing of terribly colourful cereal, spoon mid-dip for another, and narrows his eyes at the other man.

The lawyer stands in front of the coffee machine, next to the stovetop, fiddling with the settings and smoothing over the Braille labels where they threaten to peel. He hasn't been there long, and so is still puttering around rather than making coffee. His movements slow, hands gravitating to the bench, and his shoulders go tense.

Vladimir is about to ask about it when Matt's head snaps from the coffee machine to the wall that separates them from the front door.

The knock is somewhat timid, but definitely there.

" _Chert poberi_ ," Vladimir mutters, almost dropping his spoon. "I forgot to say yesterday, Karen called your phone. She wanted to talk to you."

Matt crosses the kitchen to snatch his glasses from the countertop. "About what?"

Vladimir watches Matt put on his glasses, tracking his movements. "I don't know. She did not say." He frowns, unsure why the brunet is so concerned. He's met Karen before, and doesn't exactly plan on being a social butterfly anytime soon.

"It's her, so I guess we're about to find out," Matt says with a roll of his shoulders, a bruised hand gliding over the partition wall as he rounds that corner.

"Sorry," the criminal says, through a new spoonful of cereal.

Matt pauses, and says, "It's okay," before continuing down the small hallway.

Vladimir inhales the rest of his cereal - there's not too much left, anyway - and stands from his chair at the small table. He's all too aware that he's only wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants, but it's too late to scram. He trails to the kitchen, bowl and spoon in hand, to rinse the dishware. He glances over his shoulder as the click-clack of short heels echoes through the main room.

Karen wanders in, handbag on one shoulder and a shiny balloon's string clutched in one hand. Her gaze sweeps the apartment, and she smiles in greeting, adjusting one of the long sleeves of her navy dress. "Good morning," she says.

The criminal nods and returns the greeting. "You want coffee?"

"Uh, yeah. That'd be great, thanks," Karen says with a small smile.

Matt walks ahead of her and gestures to the chairs by the table, then takes a seat. "So, what brings you here?"

"Well, did you hear about the gala last night? Some charity thing for the one-percenters at the Van Lunt building?" the secretary says as she gracefully sits, and puts her bag on the table.

"No. Why?"

Vladimir rolls his eyes at the lack of coffee filters, and begins rifling through the cupboards looking for them. They were by the machine, the other day, and now Matt's gone and put them somewhere-

"Fisk was there, donating or whatever, and gave a speech. The news is saying that later, half-dozen people got food poisoning. But then I talked to Ben earlier this morning and he has a source that said it was actual poisoning, and a few of them have died."

Vladimir shuts a cupboard door, intent on listening for just who has died. He supposes it's too much to hope that it was Fisk, but maybe it could be Wesley or one of the others. He abandons the cupboard to look on top of the fridge, standing on tiptoes to look, arms raised to reach for the jar.

"Who-?" Matt asks, "who died?"

"No-one linked to Fisk, but his girlfriend, Vanessa, is in the hospital. But, that's not why I came over. I found something. Just a scrap of paper at the county clerk's office… misfiled. It's probably why Fisk didn't get it sucked into a black hole."

Vladimir scowls as he scoops coffee into the machine. It seems like an odd event that out of everyone who was at the Van Lunt benefit, Vanessa was one of those who were poisoned. A direct ploy against Fisk would've target him, but something to… remove that variable would target her. He rolls his right shoulder, gritting his teeth at the twinge of pain from the stitched-up cut there.

"What was it?"

"A marriage certificate… for his mother, Marlene."

With a roll of his eyes, Vladimir tunes out and continues to make the coffee. They continue talking as the pot fills; something about visiting a care facility, which Matt doesn't approve of, surprise, surprise.

Could it have been a rival, that poisoned the benefit? Or Gao or Owlsley? That seems like the kind of underhanded shit they'd do. As if a hitman couldn't do a better job; could make sure the target actually died, for one.

"She's not all there, but… Matt, what she said about Fisk…" Karen pauses when the coffee is brought over, a cup for each person at the table. She nods, and continues, "He killed his father, when he was twelve. Bashed his head in with a hammer, and then she helped him cover it up."

Vladimir drops the carton of milk as he goes to set it on the table, but steadies it with his other hand before it can topple over.

Karen clears her throat, a determined expression on her face. Focused, intent, looking at Matt. Like she's thought this through. "I know that it's not enough to put him in jail. But it doesn't line up with everything that Fisk has been saying. Everything that he's altered on the Internet and at the…" she glances to Vladimir, who takes a cautious step away from the table, "the county clerk's. It might be enough to at least get people looking at him more closely." She frowns at him, mouth barely open as if she wants to say something else.

Matt doesn't seem to notice. "It's a story, from an old woman who's not all there," he sighs, a hand around his coffee mug.

Karen scoffs. "Well, I'm not hearing you and Foggy come up with anything better," she says, tone inviting a contradiction.

The lawyer turns his head, as if to check on Vladimir. Remembering that he's still there, maybe. "Not right now," he admits. Earlier, he mentioned something about discussing what to do next in their fight against Fisk later, but Vladimir was half-asleep at the time, and merely mumbled his assent for the 'later' part.

Deciding this isn't his conversation, Vladimir turns to leave. He's stopped by a gasp.

"Oh, shit. You're- you're bleeding," Karen says, doe-eyes wide in alarm.

" _Gdye?_ " Vladimir snaps, a hand going to check the wound on his abdomen. "Where?" he asks, holding the hem of the shirt away to look for the blood that isn't there. He would've felt it soaking through, surely.

"Your shoulder," the secretary says, and points with one hand while the other tucks an errant, strawberry-blonde lock behind her ear.

"The stitches," Matt adds, rising from his chair before Vladimir can do anything more than crane his neck to look.

Vladimir moves his shoulder for a better view and yeah, there's the stabbing pain that goes with split stitches. It wasn't too bad before, not enough to think they'd split, but it only takes one or two.

Matt tugs at the hem of the shirt, but asks instead of trying to remove it himself, "Can you take it off?"

The criminal makes a non-committal noise. Taking it off probably isn't a good idea, with Karen here. He pulls up that sleeve to the top of his shoulder instead, exposing the wound he can barely see. He raises his arm to get a better look, but gives that idea up when pain shoots through his shoulder.

Karen has gone paler than normal, blood draining from her face, a hand half-over her mouth. "Shit," she breathes, standing from her chair.

Which, yeah. 'Shit' is right; it's a nasty cut. But she can mind her own business. Ideally, she could leave and forget about all this, but Vladimir gets a sinking feeling in his gut that says that won't happen. Maybe he can pass it off as the result of a mugging, or a particularly stupid cooking accident involving Matt and a kitchen knife.

"It's only the middle ones," Matt says as he ghosts his fingers over the cut, fingers coming away bloody. "I must've done those too tight. I'll get the kit, you go to the couch." He takes a few steps towards the bathroom, then pauses, and turns to Karen, "Sorry about this, but maybe you should leave. I'll call you later."

Karen shakes her head in disbelief, a perplexed frown marring her delicate features. "Yeah, sure," she says, and goes to pick up her bag. She looks to Vladimir with a frown that's much too calculating to be trusted, and drops her handbag back on the table. "Could you just um, tell me one thing, before I go?"

"Sure," Matt says, bloody fingers pressed together, rubbing idly.

Vladimir narrows his gaze at the secretary but refrains from a glare. He takes another step back and straightens his posture, an unsettled gnawing in his stomach insisting that he shouldn't turn his back on her.

Karen crosses her arms, and flicks her head when another lock of hair threatens to fall over her face. "How about, why you're friends with Vladimir Ranskahov?"

* * *

Russian:  
Chert poberi / Черт побери ~ Damn it (or something similar)  
Gdye / Где ~ Where  
Please correct me if it's wrong :)


End file.
